


Obsidian & Angelite

by zeciex



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Character Study, Dark Character, Evil Power Couple, F/M, Magic, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 95,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeciex/pseuds/zeciex
Summary: Oya has spent centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting, comes with an offer she can't refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want?Maybe they're bound by something bigger than fate.





	1. The crow whispers

The sky above held its breath with a promise of sudden release of energy in the form of heavy rain and thunder. It held its breath as if waiting anxiously for something to happen. The tension seemed to electrify the atmosphere, it knitted over her skin as a soft caress, leaving a trail of raised hairs.

Oya stepped passed through the small path between her herbs, fingers gliding over the plants before she stopped at the Angelica and crouched down. She picked at the white blossoms putting them in her weaved basket.

The crows croaked from her roof telling tales of the inhabitants in the area in their own language only she understood. They were anxious much like the weather speaking of a storm brewing, of darkness approaching. Oya shushed the crows who bashed their wings in reply.

After picking a few flowers she rose once more walking back the way she came, her bare feet digging into the soft soil as she walked and the anklets chiming against one another with each step she took. Her black dress was dirty and far too large for her frame, but it was liberating and it wasn’t like there was any need to dress up. The wind took hold of her raven black hair with a cold howl. There was definitely something amiss.

The next time she stopped was at the Damiana the yellow flowers dancing in the wind. This time she only picked at the leaves but stopped when the air around her seemed to inhale deeply. Powerful tendrils grazed the barrier between her plot of land, her prison and the outside. It iminated in a hypnotising pulse through the barrier and warmly wrapped around her, telling her of the presence of someone _other_ , someone powerful.

With a hiss and harsh basking of wings, the crows on her roof flew away screeching the tale of the power that visited her. Oya remained crouched, picking a few more leaves as she silently contemplated what to do.

“I can't help you,” she voiced standing. His power made her skin warm and she could feel what little power she had, reaching for it, for just a moment before she closed herself off.

“But maybe I can help you,” He answered her with a voice soft as velvet. Oya turned with a frown towards him and thunder cracked the sky open when it finally released its breath with a heavy downpour. Seconds passed and she was already soaked to the bone. Her bare feet sunk in the muddy ground as she walked towards the gate that was the only way through the moss-covered stone barrier between her and the outside world.

He was beautiful in a way that lured you in but something about him reminded her of a colourful snake that’d lure its prey in with its colours only to sink its teeth into them as soon as they came too close. His golden hair reached the top of his collar, perfectly poised and untouched by the downpour, saved by the umbrella that was held by some unfortunate soul that wasn’t as lucky.

“You can’t help me, no one can,” she answered him with a voice cold as ice. “You best leave now before the storm picks up.” His blue gaze remained on her, not letting up. Cold tickled up her spine uncomfortably making her break eye contact with him. Something about him wasn't right but it also felt strangely right.

“What do you want?” She questioned again.

“I already told you, I want to help you.”

“No one wants to help someone without there being something in it for themselves,” she bit at him. “Besides, I told you _no one_ can help me.”

He smirked and it send goosebumps all over her body. She swallowed. Who the fuck was he? How did he even find her? The last time foreigners came to her were decades ago, when you travelled by horse and ship, when believing in magic, believing in someone like her were more normal. It was mostly her own countrymen that came to visit her and especially from the village below the mountains, but even they were beginning to lose faith in her as the youth renounced the supernatural.

“Let me in, Oya,” he said and for a moment she forgot to breathe.

“Who are you?”

“I am Michael Langdon and you should be wise to let me in, my offering of help won’t be said again.”

If she let him in it would be letting a serpent in her domain and by the aura of power around him, she’d be able to do nothing if he were to strike. But her curiosity made her fingers tingle for letting him in, her heart drumming in her chest. Curiosity was by far one of her biggest struggles.

“Michael Langdon,” she tried out his name crooking her head. “You may come in, but your servant there may not.” She let her hand wipe through the water filled air using what little magic she had to open the gate for Langdon. Without waiting for him to move she turned on her heel and walked towards her small cottage, her black dress clinging to her frame and hair sticking to her skin. Before sliding the door open she washed off the dirt from her feet in the basin of water beside it.

Behind her she heard Langdon approach silently, almost without sound.

“Take off your shoes, it’s considered rude to wear them inside and I don't want mud all over my house,” she muttered.

Inside the walls of the cottage was panels of wood. It was one big room, with a fireplace on one side and the bed in a crook on the other, a curtain serving as a door. The kitchen was small and old. Everything was old and of course, it was, she hasn't been able to keep up with time as any other house.

She could almost feel Langdon sizing up the place. Everything about him screamed modern luxury, it almost made her feel bad for her home. Without sparing him any glances, almost afraid to look, she went to put the kettle over the fireplace, warming her hands for a moment. It wasn't until she listened to him shuffle further in the house, she looked at him.

Amusement bubbled in her. He looked out of place between the dried flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling, among her gifts, her blessings and curses. He stood out like a sore thumb in his suit and golden hair and blue eyes that looked over her possessions.

Michaels' finger grazed against a curse, obsidian stones, leather and Lobelia wrapped around branches in a circle, with the stones hanging beneath. Their eyes connected and he raised a brow at her.

Oya stood and walked over the floor, her bare feet hitting the wood in quick paces, hurrying behind the curtain that hid her bed. She pulled the wet dress over her head and dropped it at her feet and replaced it with a red silk robe with golden dragons embroidered into the fabric. When she came out again Langdon had taken seat on the cushions in front of the fireplace opposite her. Those blue eyes of his hadn’t left her, not when she disappeared behind the see-through curtain, not when she changed and not now.

“I don’t know what you expect, Mr. Langdon, but I told you already that there’s no helping me, so you might as well just tell me what _you_ want from me,” She said as she poured him a warm cup of tea.

“You wouldn’t have let me in if there wasn’t a part of you that thought I spoke the truth,” he said, lifting the cup of tea and sniffing it suspiciously.

“It’s chamomile.” She demonstrated that it wasn't dangerous by taking a sip of her own. “Tell me, what do you get out of helping me?”

“I don’t like to see potential such as yourself waste away in the corner of the world, kept from her abilities,” he said calmly. Even his voice was sensual, it drawed you in and made you want to give him your out most personal details. It was alluring, she gave him that. “It must be awful to be kept from powers such as your own, to only be able to use less than a fraction, all because of a binding spell.”

Oya clenched her jaw, fingers fitting over the seams of her robe. It wasn’t just a binding spell, it was a spell that locked away her powers within her body and a spell to bind her to this wretched plot of land for eternity. The spells showed themselves as tattoos on her body, around her wrist and ankles, around her neck. Chains to keep her in place.

“And you assume you’re able to break the spell?” Oya hissed and somehow cynically laughed.

“Yes.”

“How?” A smile formed on his lips, a smile that could hide anything, secrets, truths, poison. She felt his energy travel along the bare skin of her exposed legs, along the nape of her neck, wrapping around her wrists. It lured her with a strange familiarity.

“You’re not ready for it, not yet,” he said. This made her erupted in anger.

“Not yet? Not ready? What do you want, huh? If I’m not ready why are you here?” Langdon remained calm, his eyes peeling the layers of her walls off, meaning to expose her soul.

“I’m here because I want to offer you help but for now I can only offer another prison, if you will, until you are ready to be freed.” He leaned closer, putting down his cup of untouched tea before letting his head rest on his hand. The way he leaned in was intimate as if this were only between them. “For now I can change your location of binding, so rather than being trapped here-,”

“I’d be trapped somewhere else,” Oya finished. These walls had been her prison for decades, the wretched plot of land. A prison is not a home, home is somewhere you can come and go, somewhere you can be free, this was not a home. “A prison is a prison no matter what it looks like.”

“But wouldn’t you rather live in luxury? To live somewhere with a promise of freedom?”

“And is it? A promise of freedom?” Who was he to promise such a thing? He was powerful that much was given, but there was a darkness to his power, a malevolence that was far too familiar. Something in her whispered to trust him, to go with him. But it felt like she was making a deal with the devil.

“Yes.”

“What is the price?”

“For now, the truth,” he answered with a smirk. Oya took a deep breath and leaned back on her arms, her robe hitching higher on her thighs and let the right side of the collar slip dangerously close to the edge of her shoulder. His eyes remained fixed on hers. The truth was a much steeper price than sex, a price she’d rather pay. The truth to her was a reminder, something cruel that split her in two.

“What truth?” she mused attempting to avoid it altogether.

“Yours. I want to know exactly what you are and how you ended up here.” There was no avoiding it. If she wanted to get out she’d have to pay. With a defeated sigh, she fell back in her original position, biting her lip trying to find the words.

“You must have heard the tales, otherwise why’d you be here?”

“Tales aren't always true,” he hummed and let his head fall to the side in a childish curiosity she recognised as one she herself held. What he wanted was her pain, for her to bare her soul to him. “If you lie or omit, I will know.”

“What do you know of Mesopotamian gods?”

“I’m far more familiar with other mythologies.” There was an edge to his voice.

“My parents, despite our Korean roots, worshipped the Mesopotamian gods. They said we had divine blood in our veins and that one day that blood would give us great power. My sister was born, a witch of many talents and then I was born,” she stopped trying to find the right words. How do you explain something like this? Langdon waited patiently, eyes never wavering away, not even when Oya restlessly stood. “At first I didn’t have any abilities and that’s why the focused on my sister.”

“But as you got older your powers showed themselves,” Michael added as if he read her thoughts. And just maybe he had.

“Yes. I could feel them grow, feel the eruption of them under my skin, inside of me, like wildfire.” She turned to him when she reached the wall, eyes connecting with his. He was no longer sitting, but standing as half a shadow, one side of him illuminated by the fire. Outside the thunder and lightning raged on.

“How did it feel?” He asked, slowly approaching her. She could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Liberating, empowering,” she breathed. Softly Michaels' fingers grazed over her cheek, closing around a messy strand of half dry hair. The ghost of his gaze lingered on her skin, it burned in a way that felt absolutely delicious. “Dangerous.”

In an attempt to gain control and distance she turned away from him. The power that pulsed through him in tendrils, was much like his appearance, sensual and dark.

“Ereshkigal was the goddess that inspired the Greek goddess Hecate, goddess of witchcraft,” Oya continued her story but stopped, hesitating. Would he even believe her? It was true but some things were better left unsaid in regards to her origin.

She knew she was dangerously close to the line he had drawn but just maybe she’d be able to pass it.

Michael didn’t let her. “I can feel you withholding something.”

She shot him a glare. “I don’t trust you, Mr. Langdon.”

“I’m not asking for your trust just yet, Oya. I’m asking for the truth, if you want my help you will give it to me.”

“Ereshkigal is also the goddess of the underworld. She’s said to hold great power. There are many stories about her, whether she impaled her sister at the gates of her kingdom, whether she let her go again, whether she was abducted and forced to be queen. Her story doesn’t matter and we will never know but her blood is my blood,” Oya raised her voice slowly, proud of what she was.

It was a mere flash of realisation that crossed Langdon's face, in a blink of an eye all was hidden behind a perfect mask, eyes only showing pure interest, fascination. His gaze crept along her skin.

“My parents prayed and the gods, or fate or whatever answered. They said we had divine blood in our veins and they were right, I just had more.”

“Fascinating,” Langdon hummed, suddenly all too close once more. His fingers barely touched her chin, lifting her eyes towards him. “A goddess in the flesh.” Warm breath hit her face, he smelled of _pimenta officinalis_ , allspice. Sweet and yet spicy. Oya leaned back away from him, she didn’t trust the closeness of his being or rather she didn’t trust the predatory look in his eyes. It seemed to entertain him the reluctance towards his presence and she supposed it would be when she would rather have fucked him than give him her truth.

Not only did his powers whirl around him invading her prison but his being invaded her space too. She didn’t trust the closeness, no.

“And yet bound in her form,” he finished. “Binding a goddess is no easy feat.”

“No,” Oya agreed. The two were but an arm's length from each other, sizing each other up. “It is no easy feat at all. I had a hard time controlling my powers, unleashing them felt… _good_. My parents tried to control me and it didn’t end well.

I killed a village overnight I don’t know how but I did.” Her body began to shake at the memory, the same way thunder crackled outside and the rain drumming against the roof.

“The betrayal was unpleasant to say the least. The ritual was excruciating… I don’t,” her voice broke with the tears welling in her eye. Flashes of her past shot through her mind, pain blooming in her chest. “My sister held my arms as my mother chanted, the other witches of their coven standing in a circle around me. With serpents blood they locked me in place and with the blood of the coven they bound me to this land.” Tears spilled over warm and salty in contrast to the droplets falling from the sky. Langdon reached for her once more, drying off her hot tears. He was unreadable.

She wasn’t sure if he was enjoying her tale of pain and betrayal or if he pitied her. Either way, it left a bitter taste in her mouth. It felt as if she was signing over her story to him, for him to evaluate and for him to do with as he pleased.

“They got a man from the next village over to… rape me, all while they bound my body and soul. They left me humiliated and powerless.” There was no trace of pity in his eyes, no enjoyment of her pain but rather a sorrowfulness. To see something great and powerful left ruined and broken.

“I’ve been here since. The villagers come with food every week, they know me as a witch or shaman. That is my story, my truth and punishment.”

“It is,” he merely said. “I am sorry for what they did to you. Instead of helping you to control your powers they punished you for it and for that I am sorry.”

Oya watched him trying to understand how he managed to seem so cold but speak with such understanding. It frightened her that a predator could also be feeling compassion. The untrusting side of her, the one with sharp words and poisoned tongue left her frowning at him.

“I don’t need you to be sorry, I need you to release me,” her harsh tone cut through the air. For a moment there was a glimpse of a smile on his lips. It was not that he found her funny but rather intriguing.

“And so I will,” he said. Lightning flashed outside illuminating the room in a cold light and made time reveal itself. Darkness had fallen around them and not just by the storm outside. Oya tore her eyes from the strange man before her, stepping past him to pull the curtain away from her bed.

“The storm is too violent for travel now and the path to town is too treacherous at night, more so in the storm,” she turned. “You can sleep in the bed.”

* * *

 

The dark stranger had taken room in her bed with only the curtain as a barrier. She herself was sitting before the fireplace, an onyx bowl filled with water in front of her and a lit candle in her hands. Silently she uttered her enchantment, flexing what little magic she possessed to reach out.

It was an attempt to see something about the stranger in her bed, a memory, a whisper, anything to tell her who exactly he was and what he was.

One thing was certain, he wasn’t a warlock no warlock has ever possessed a power such as his and children of gods such as herself were more than a rarity.

Wax dripped down into the bowl and hardened. More and more clusters of wax floating as time passed with no vision. There was a barrier between her and what she wanted to see, one she could not break through without being allowed entry.  She needed something of his if she were to see something.

With the attempt to get some knowledge on Langdon failed, she blew out the candle and watched the smoke rise in patterns.

Michael Langdon scared her. He scared her because he felt familiar, like her locked up magic was answering his magics call. Most of all he scared her because she felt the connection between them, one that wanted to push her towards him as if he were a magnet. His presence tickled on her skin in a way she couldn’t explain and honestly, she was afraid of how addictive it felt.

 


	2. A prison is a Prison

For hours she’d been up, long before the storm seized and returned to a calm humid. The time had been spent on collecting her things into an old leather bag, mostly seeds, books and the trivial jewellery collection she had gathered throughout the years, payments from her visitors. She hadn’t come anywhere near Langdon, his presence both a burning curiosity and a danger. Whether he had slept or meditated she didn’t know and honestly didn't care to find out.

It wasn't until the sky had turned to orange morning before Michael showed his face, hair still impeccable. Maybe, just maybe he put a hex on it.

“You sleep like the dead,” Oya noted when she pushed the bag towards the open door with her foot.  

“And you didn’t sleep at all,” he mused back, fixing his jacket to sit properly. “Too busy doing small spells.”

So he knew, he knew she had looked for answers. The feeling had been there, that he could feel her flexing her powers, much like she’d feel his own. Without a hint of remorse she abruptly turned towards him, her black dress fawning out like a flower, blossoming and then withering.

“Yea, well when a mysterious stranger shows up holding the key to your cell, you want to know who holds it,” she rebuked. As much as everything about him lured her in, she also mistrusted him. How could you trust someone you didn’t know? Let alone someone that had secrets woven into his seams.

“And what did you find?” He asked knowing very well she hadn’t found anything but wax and smoke.

“I don’t trust you Mr. Langdon and you haven’t given me anything to trust. I’m a curious person and _you_ ,” She wiggled her finger at him. “Are one big question mark.”

He chuckled at her biting tone. “You don’t trust me but still you’re willing to let me change your binding to this plot of land to another, a place you know nothing about simply because I gave you a promise?”

“Something about you tells me you’d keep your promise and I’m willing to risk it for freedom,” she said walking closer to him. With her magic she reached out and pulled at a knife, it’s blade cutting through the air until it landed in her hand. The blade met the soft skin of Langdon's neck who only reacted by lifting his brows at her. “If you break the promise I’ll turn your life into living hell.” She closed in further, her lips inches from his, eyes burning. The threat pulled at the corner of his lips, eyes turning sultry. “And trust me, Mr. Langdon, you don't want to piss off even a bound goddess.”

His eyes all but rolled in enjoyment.

Oya stepped back, threw the knife that once more cut through the air and dug into the wall. She might be bare for spilling her past but she’d cut down every layer he had as he did her.

* * *

 

Langdon stood at the gate of her prison, a statue out of time, out of place. It was fascinating how alluring he was, and concerning at the same time. He waited patiently for Oya to finish her ritual, putting various herbs and oils into a bowl on her porch, symbols marked in chalk around it.

She blew out the candle and let the smoke dance up around her before setting it beside the bowl. With one last utter of words, she stood and turned to Langdon. Behind her the content of the bowl lit up in blue and green flames, ashy smoke rising from it to mix with the air. And like that she had locked away her prison, her house, with a hex that’d make any intruders turn around.

“Are you ready?” He asked, opening the gate for him to step out. Oya came to stand in front of him, the two of them looking at one another through the invisible barrier that surrounded her.

She clutched her bag in one hand and dried the other on her dress, suddenly nervous. Her first attempt on escaping had burned her, quite literally. If she tries to pass the barrier she’d start sizzling like a piece of bacon and recovery is long and painful.

“I’m ready,” she answered, determined for this to work. It had to. Michael smiled down at her, his golden hair a halo in the sunlight. With a withheld breath, she took it, the sensation of his hand in hers leaving her skin warm and tingling. The energy around him engulfed her in burning darkness, whirling up the dust at their feet.

With one step backwards, Oya was forced to move forward. One step, her feet hit ground it hadn’t stepped on for what felt like an eternity.

Her dark eyes snapped to Langdon, who simply smiled at her before stepping back once more. This time her feet hit warm concrete, the green around them replaced with blinding whites and dark greys.

From one prison to another.

Buckling, her knees hit the concrete, hand leaving Michael and instead falling over her mouth as realisation hit her. Tears stung in her eyes.

It might have been strange to celebrate a switch of cells but when you’ve been trapped in one place for centuries, forced to stay out of time, forced to only see as long as your eyes can, kept from society and luxuries, you’d eventually lose all your hope. And that was exactly what she had done, lost all hope.

And then Michael Langdon came and promised to not only free her from a version of her hell but give her hope for freedom to the fullest.

Langdon crouched down to her level.

“Y-you have no idea what it’s like to have been trapped in the same place for what felt like an eternity,” her voice shook with strangled sobs. Looking up at him there was a mix of gratefulness and spite on her face. “I’m grateful even if it’s stepping from one prison into another.”

With strange softness Michael took her face in his hands, using his thumb to wipe the salty tears from her cheeks. Even stranger was the light in his voice, almost a careful tenderness. “I hope you’ll eventually see this as a home rather than confines.”

“A home is not a prison,” she uttered, voice barely a whisper. “It doesn’t matter what luxuries it holds.” Standing she gripped her bag once more, holding it in front of her as a shield between Michael and herself. With a chuckle Michael walked further into the room, not bothering to turn around when he called her over his shoulder.

The two walked through the space, an open plane with concrete floors, open white kitchen and walls of glass overlooking green forest and a dark blue lake. She found that most of the sparse furniture there was looked rather uncomfortable but luxurious.

With quick steps, she followed him up the stairs, through a hall that ended in matted glass door. Inside were a bed bigger than the one she had in every aspect, height and most certainly width, covered in dark silk pillows. One wall was like most others in the house, of glass. Two openings in the wall lead to what she could glimpse, the bathroom, bigger than her house. And another opening leads to a room darker.

Curious, she dropped her bag at the door and walked into the darkened room. As soon as she entered the room lit up, revealing rows of silk, chiffon and lace dresses, shoes in all hights, some covered in glitter and other edged with gold.

“This will be your room,” Michael said from behind her. Almost, just almost did she snark him with the line ‘ _Obviously this isn’t your room’_ but instead, she took a rather revealing silk dress between her fingertips, turning with a raised brow at him.

“Is this leftovers from your previous captives?”

“Bought specifically for you.”

“You were certain I’d come with you?” She asked walking to the island in the middle of the room, the top of the disk glass revealing all kinds of jewellery. She pulled open a drawer and raised her brown once more, scrunching her nose at the content.

“Yes,” he answered, leaning against the island with his hands in his pockets. There was an ease to the way he stood.

Oya hummed and pulled out a lace bra that was barely fabric tisking with her tongue. “I don’t know what you imagine but this,” she shook the bra in the air with a disgusted and slightly entertained look on her face. “Is not going to happen.”

“What do you assume would happen?” Langdon's voice was thick and rich as dark chocolate.

“I assume that if you so much as try anything I’ll wrap my hands around your throat and _squeeze_ until your breath leaves you.” Oya pushed him away from her backing further into the room and folded her hands behind her back. The coil in her stomach tightened.

“Does the thought of that excite you?” From the looks of it, it excited _him,_ but she couldn’t deny the pulsing beneath her skin and the drumming in her chest. It was like dancing around a fire and at one point someone would feel the lick of the flames. The thought excited her more than she cared to admit and yet mistrust was a perfect restraint.

Michael hummed walking back towards the exit. “I’ll leave you to get used to your new surroundings.” With his presence the pull of his power followed out of the room, leaving an odd emptiness in its place. Lingering were a need but a quiet one that didn't reveal itself any further than a cold longing.

Oya smiled for herself with a look of mischief on her face. In her hand, hidden behind her back were one single strand of golden hair taken from Michaels jacket. With that, she had something of his and a way of connection.

The strand was carefully placed in a colourful scarf and hidden in one of the many drawers. A secret to be explored later.

For now, the exploration she’d do was of the house.

* * *

 

Much like Langdon himself, the house was clean cut. There was nothing out of place, everything was a vast open space with the exception of a few rooms. The library on the second floor had three walls filled with books and an old antique chess board in the middle of the room.  

It was a contrast to where she previously lived. No dried herbs and plants hanging from the ceiling, no collected trinkets and hexes lying around, no clutter at all. In fact, every room was stripped of familiarities as if it were just a place you visited, a museum. Even Langdon's own room she had peeked into looked much like her own and gave no evidence of who or what he was.

The only thing that stuck out was the only wooden door in the house made of dark oak and locked shut.

What surprised her was the greenhouse, a vast glasshouse in the form of a hexton. An addition to the house no doubt and for her she supposed. Langdon doesn’t seem like a person who’d spend time on his knees digging in the dirt to make something grow.

By the time she had finished exploring the world outside the windows had gone dark. The day ending rather quickly which meant that she was no longer in Korea.

“Smells delicious,” Langdon commented when he entered the first floor and took another deep breath.

Oya took the meat off the frying pan and put the pieces on the plate beside the salat. Langdon had made sure the kitchen was fully stocked and she couldn’t help herself but try out the new stove, one that didn’t need wood.

“I assumed you’d prefer rare,” she said and handed him a plate. “Don’t expect this to become a habit.”  

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The two of them sat down across from one another each with a glass of wine to go with the meat. Oya’s mind reeled, trying to decipher the mystery of Michael Langdon. What exactly did she know of him? Only the perception and his name.

“Should we play a game?” She asked watching him intently.

“A game?”

“You know far more about me than I do you, I’d like to even out the score, even if just a little.” Langdon motioned with his hand for her to continue, intrigued by the sudden display of familiarity though he knew very well what she was after. Oya licked her lips before continuing. “I will ask you two questions and you will answer as close to the truth as whatever secrets you have will allow.”

“And what’s in it for me?” He mused at her again with a voice of velvet and silk. Following his movement with her eyes, Oya watched him take the glass of red wine and bring it to his lips. She looked away.

“For every second question, you may ask me one of your own.”

“Very well, what is your first question?”

“Are you a trust fund kid?” She asked too quickly to formulate a proper question. It should rather have been ‘where do you get the money to afford such a place like this?’ And she winced at the stupidity of it.

“No,” Michael answered truthfully with a slight chuckle. His fingers tapped against the glass in rhythmic silent clinks.

“Where are we?”

“America.” This surprised her quite a bit. It’s one thing to move from one place to another in the blink of the eye but it’s something else entirely to move from one continent to another and with a binding spell no less.

The outside world was lit up by cold moonlight, the silhouette of trees forming a sea just outside the windows. Not a single light in sight.

“Do you get excited when I’m near you?” Playfulness tugged at his features, head tilting in curiosity.

“Yes,” Oya answered truthfully with only a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I think there’s no soul out there that wouldn’t get excited by your presence and I think you already know this. You use your… beauty? Sensuality? as a weapon to both lure in and dominate. You know very well what effect you have on people, what weapon you hold against them. As much as it intrigues me I’m not about to fuck a knife, Mr. Langdon.”

“You’re very intuitive, Oya.” Michael laughed, his hair dancing in the air and smile reaching his eyes. They were both aware of one another and when one moved the other did too. It was a dance of souls, of words being said and meanings hinted. But as with all dance partners there had to be honesty between them and for now, honesty was only in bits and pieces. Michael was after all laced with secrets, many of which Oya guessed she’d never know. “Please, rather than calling me Mr. Langdon why don't you use my first name.”

“I’d rather not,” she said with a shrug. “That’d give us a form of intimacy I’m not sure I’m willing to give you. How did you find me, Mr. Langdon?”

“I suppose I’ve had glimpses of you throughout my life,” he began, eyes watching her closely. Oya shifted under his gaze, puzzled to the core by what that all meant. She’d been alive longer than he had by centuries and she had never in his lifetime ever set foot outside of her land, not even by astral projection.

And yet there was a tug at the corner of her mind.

“Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I asked my father about you. You do make quite a legend. It didn’t take long through a locating spell to find out where you were exactly.” Something within the tone of his voice send shivers down her spine and when an invisible tendril of energy wrapped around her wrist, a trail of goosebumps rose over her skin.

The game made her heart drum violently against her ribs and adrenaline shoot through her veins, making her skin burn with warmth.

“Why are we out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Privacy.”

“So it’s not because you’re afraid that when my binding spell is broken that’d I’d accidentally unleash it on the world?”

“That’s three questions but I’ll answer you anyway.” How generous of _you_ , he thought bitingly but kept it to herself. It was after all her own rules she broke and she was all to curious. “I like privacy, away from the rest of the world and your potential is far too big for me to risk anyone finding out about you through an... _accident_ of yours.”

“Fair enough.”

“Did you feel lonely? Before you were bound.”

Oya licked her lips and rose from her seat, taking her empty plate with her to the sink. The question was loaded, it was much more than just ‘did you feel lonely’ it was filled with other questions, ‘did you feel shut out?’, ‘did you feel loved?’ and ‘what was your only wish?’. It felt like that. Heavy, a question containing many more questions and questions that seemed to be ones he himself might have experienced.

It was strange, indeed.

“Yes, any child of parents who do not want them would feel lonely.”

“But that is not all.”

“No.” She turned to him. He had come to stand beside her at the sink. She looked up at him, drawing in a breath that felt her lungs with spite. Spite was an motivator that could move mountains and one that she was familiar with in the sense that she wanted to punish her family for ignoring her, then using her and then stripping her to the bone.

“Power comes with a loneliness that can only be removed when you find someone who can look past it,” Langdon all but whispered to her.

“Have you found that someone?”

“I did.” There was a sadness in his eyes one that forced her thoughts to fall from her mouth in quiet words.

“I suppose loneliness is a constant battle until you find that someone. I never did, not before and especially not with my powers and not after.” It was like looking in a mirror, even if it was just a moment. She let her mistrust fall an inch, let her spite against him seize and her guard fall, because there was something recognizable.

“What’s in it for you, Michael Langdon?” The question had been asked before but just maybe by playing this game he’d be willing to show a flash of his cards that was kept closely to his person.

“A friend, maybe,” he mused.

Half truth, that was what it was. The moment of openness passed quickly and Langdon stepped back from her making the air between them cold.

“Thank you for dinner and the game but I fear I have work to do.”

Oya was left standing with the same emptiness she had when he left in the walk in closet. The game was meant to reveal more about him but for every question answered only more came up.

What was most revealing was a glimpse behind his mask of sensuality, a fragileness. And what frightened her the most was that she recognizes herself in him.

Michael Langdon was an enigma.

* * *

 

Salt was scattered in a fine ring around the freestanding tub and candles placed along the border of that ring, small yellow flames rising from the stem. In the water floated a mix of herbs, Bearberry for psychic awareness, Catnip for trance work, Blue Sage for meditation and Mugwort for scrying, along with a few drops of her potion mixture.

Oya sank into the bath, warmth embracing her in a calming way. For a moment she thanked the gods for the luxuries of Langdons house and in this instance for warm water she wasn’t forced to heat up by the stove or over the fire. Her raven black hair floated at the surface.

Musing a few words she held a long thin candle just above the water. The candle lit by itself, flame shooting up. The piece of Langdons hair was fed to the flame, letting it turn blue, this would help focus her vision.

Slowly she sank beneath the surface of the water, the air held in her lungs and her face disappeared.

Her entire body with the exception of her hands beneath the water, she let her mind go.

At first, there were only darkness surrounding her. Then slowly she felt water beneath her feet, her body appearing before her in an emptiness. In this place, there were nothing, blackness all around her, water to her ankles, no light and yet she could see herself. It was a place out of time, out of form and she hated it. It scared her more than anything else.

And so she began to walk until shapes began to form around her, a sky red as blood, withered grass crunching beneath her feet rather than water, woods towering up around her.

A coldness crept up her spine and set her heart drumming rapidly against her rips. This place felt hollow and painful. Everything was blurred and no matter how hard she blinked the blurriness wouldn't go away.

A sudden bask of wings and crawking turned her eyes towards the sky. Black feathers against the red sky, crows circling around screeching things she couldn’t catch onto. There were a whisper of malevolence in the air.

Looking down again a boy with blond curls stood a few meters before her with his back turned to her presence.

“Hallo?” She called to him and finding her voice falling short. In an attempt to move she found her feet locked in place, cold fingers gripping at her legs, digging into her skin in a bruising manner. Half skeletons looked up at her with hollow eyes, hissing and screaming,

Oya fought panic ridden but found there was no way out of their grasp. Pain shot up through her body, tears stinging in her eyes, strangled sobbs tightening her cest.

“Help me!” She screamed to the boy and found him turned to her, now older and taller, blond locks in a mess around his head. Black eyes stared back at her and she screamed.

The crows broke through their circle with a screech, wings basking violently as they dived for her, sharp claws heading towards her soft skin. Again she looked at the boy and this time, his eyes were blue and filled with sorrow, filled with fear and confusion.

Gasping Oya broke through the surface of the water, the candle in her hand now suffocated by a wave of water. Her hands dug into the sides of the tub, holding her up as she coughed and coughed, mind trying to understand that it had broken out of _that_ place and were now safe.

The stub of the candle were long forgotten, fallen into the abyss of the water.

Within her chest, her heart strained painfully, feeling empty and hollow. Tiredness clung to her, energy all used up from her spell, suffocated by the chains around her neck.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she kept repeating over and over trying to calm the jittering in her body, trying to connect her mind to the now. She had done this many times before but none of them had left her so confused. Usually, there’d be more substance to understand, more to follow, but this… had been blurry and scattered.

Often you’d have to intrepid the meaning of the vision and it’d oftentimes be easy and a breeze to understand. But this, was strange.

The boy with blue eyes haunted her memory. It was Langdon yes but at the same time, he felt different.  

Leaving the tub she walked the counter in from of the mirror, leaning on it. Her hair stuck to her wet body, small streams and drops of water sliding down her body in uncontrolled patterns.

Looking at herself, her dark eyes studied the poutyness of her mouth, red rosepeadels blooming against sun kissed skin. She got her appearance from her mother, a beauty that seemed otherworldly and had caused her more than enough trouble at times. Her frame was slender and edged, breasts plump and perky in the change from warm to cool.

The dark tattoos stood out against her skin, wrapping around her neck, around her wrists and ankles.

With a hussed sigh, she turned to observe her back over her shoulder. A large round mark was tattooed into her skin, symbols that bound her. If she didn’t know better her tattoos looked like jewelry, fine and perfect. But they held onto the part of her she desperately wanted to release.

Once she attempted to cover the tattoo on her back with two crows in flight but the spell wouldn’t allow such a thing and her curse burned through the tattoo, dismembering her birds.

Crows were her birds… and apparently, Langdons birds too.

Maybe they were more similar that she wanted.

Looking down at her legs she noted the red lines that had been drawn over her skin, remnants of her vision. They wanted to tell her something, the skeletons but they were unable to do so. The crows were both a warning and for protection. But Langdon himself, he remained a question.

The darkness and malevolence were evident in him shown by his black eyes, but the blue ones, they were something else entirely. -And it was the blue ones she had seen so far.

  



	3. Soil in witch the seed grows

A week felt like a long time when restless, waiting to be set free. A week she had spent trying to distract herself from the question of _when_. In that week the garden had grown with flourish by her hand and a little touch of magic, patience for the seeds to grow all too small to let it grow by nature itself.

When that week was up even the garden couldn’t distract her and she decided that if Langdon didn’t want to answer the question, she’d bother him until he caved. But since Langdon had barely been seen, she drowned her frustration in an old bottle of whiskey.

If he avoided her she’d make so much noise he’d not be able to think, let alone avoid her. At first, she randomly hammered the keys of the piano but eventually -or rather quickly she got all too distracted by creating a melody than just creating noise.

With controlled motions, her fingers danced over the keys creating a haunting melody. The whiskey started to have an effect, her fingers every once in a while hitting the wrong note.

“Have you played before?” Michael asked walking around the grand piano with his hands folded behind his back in a poised manner. Oya glared at him and continued to play.

“I’m a fast learner,” she said. Michael raised his brow at her, tilting his head curiously. With a sigh she stopped in the middle of the performance, leaning back to look up at him. “Do you play?”

“No,” he mused but moved closer until he stood behind her, leaning over to let his fingers continue where she left off. Blond hair tickled against her shoulder sending a trail of goosebumps up her neck. His body heat engulfed with a warm embrace and his scent pulled at her heartstrings in a mesmerizing way. “But I’m a fast learner.”

Drinking had been a bad choice.

With her inhibition lowered Michael had a much bigger effect on her. It made it hard to think, hard not wanting his energy to consume her whole, to not imagine what his skin would feel like against hers.

She stood forcing Michael back.

Oya quickly grabbed the bottle of amber liquid and took a swing, swallowing the burning sensation.

Michael chuckled when she glared at him spitefully.

“You’ve kept me here for a week. When are you going to tell me what I need to do to be ‘ready’?” Despite trying to sound angry and brave, her voice wavered under Michaels watchful eyes. Her fingers fiddled over the cool bottle almost nervously.

“Is that why you drink?”

“I drink,” she said with faltering confidence, leaning against the cold glass of the window, letting it cool her skin. “Because I’m bored and restless.”

Moving like a predator, in a way that was smooth and captivating, eyes burning with a cold blue flame, he stalked towards her. Even the cool of the windows was nothing against the burning he made her body feel. She waved at him, kicking her leg out in front of her in a childish way, shaking her head.

“Don’t come closer,” she protested with a frown. Michael stopped short just outside of kicking range. Looking down at her feet there was a moment she mused over the dirtiness of them and how it stood a complete contrast to everything else in the house. One of the best feelings in the world was burying your bare feet in the soil where life springs from and because of that and the lack of need to dress up she was usually found with bare feet.

The only pair of shoes in Langdon's vast sortiment for her that she might wear was the loafers with golden bees embroidered onto them. The rest were heels and thought they looked fine on her, she prefered bare feet.

“Why?” Langdon questioned with that velvety voice of his, rich and humming. “Do I affect you that much?”

“Yes,” she breathed honestly. Why bother to lie when he had already told her he’d see right through them. Instead, the truth might serve as a shield if used correctly. This shield, however, was much too little to hide behind. “Why do you keep asking when you already know the answers?”

“Because it’s much more entertaining to get people to admit things than to just presume them.”

“Just tell me, Michael,” she faltered with a sigh, looking up at him with big black eyes. It was the first time, she realised, that she had used his first name without his last name, without contempt or annoyance but rather a softness.

This made him take a step forward, his power moving along the skin of her bare legs, rising up in a way that made her insides flutter.

Stubbornness took over her features, eyes glaring but wavering.

“For me to be able to,” he almost tasted the word, savouring it, while looking directly at her. “Release you from the spell you need to trust me, fully.”

Oya held her breath as he came closer, his breath warm on her face. Light as a feather, his finger ghosted up her throat sending a fire curling through her body. He made her look at him, directly and without a way to hide.

“You have to trust me and give yourself up to me,” he finished.

The alcohol might cloud her mind but Michael drove her closer to the line she had drawn. She felt herself wanting him, felt the way her body reacted to him being this close and how his power lured her in.

With all the resilience she could muster up Oya broke away from Langdon and his siren song, stumbling further away. With the distance she could breathe easy, _think_.

Langdon in all his might leaned against the glass in an easy stance, playfulness radiating from him. His golden hair nibbled at his shoulders, still perfect as ever and she wasn't sure why she fixated on that when his lips smirked so mischievously at her. And that’s when a surge of her own mischievousness formed.

“I’m not the only one affected, am I?”

“No,” he admitted with a hum without blinking an eye. “Your face is turning red.”

Oya felt her cheeks, trying to cool them with her hands but finding the heat unrelenting. With a frown she glared at him, something that had become all too common. “It’s warm in here and you’re deflecting.”

“I am attracted to you. There’s this pull towards you and it’s enticing, more so because you try and deny yourself of it.”

“Yea, I feel it. I feel it under my skin, tugging at me, whispering to me but you know what?” She said, putting down the almost empty bottle with a sigh. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Is that so?”

“Trust, Mr. Langdon, goes both ways. When you give me something to trust I might reconsider.” It was her turn to walk closer to him, to let her feet silently walk over the concrete with her back straightened, mirroring his mischief with her own. This dance to each others siren song was a battle. One moves and the other does too, much like before. But these moves were of need and want.

“Something tells me, Mr. Langdon, that you’re a virgin,” the thought left her mind and formed on her tongue, sweet as nectar but ready to poison if needed. Michaels smirk grew, eyes darkening as he tried to read her.

“And would that bother you?” Everything was a game, he moved a piece and she did the same. He had a strange way to draw out one's thoughts, one's needs and wants, a way to reveal his opponent and even further a way to see exactly what pieces needed to be moved and where.

“No,” she matched his musing, the one that drew out the word and made it velvety, filled with soft sensuality.

“Did you get your needs filled being trapped in that place?”

“Would that bother you?” She copied.

He tried to hold back the chuckle but it vibrated through him with a wide smile on his lips, delighted that she’d bite back. “No.”

Under her skin the need to rise up on her toes and press her lips to his, those that sinfully smirked at her, those that withheld the silver tongue and ways to manipulate. The need tickled under her skin, made her breath hitch in her throat and pulse rise. Need was such a dangerous thing and Michael Langdon even more so. He commanded it, sharpened it, spoke silver words of it and used it to his advantage. He wanted her to give in and for that she spitefully turned, walking away with inflated confidence in and the unspeakable ache pulsing between her legs begging her to turn around and let him ease it for her.

But there was this thing she needed, this little thing he hadn’t given her and that was the only thing to keep her back. And by the gods, it was tethered in a thin string.

“This game is fun but it can only go on for so long,” Oya said over her shoulder, her tickling down her back in wild locks of ebony silk.

“Indeed.”

“Goodnight Mr. Langdon.” She left up the stairs in a calm pace, walking with the inflated confidence until her door closed behind her and she let out a shaky groan. Throwing herself at her bed, she buried her head in the pillows, trying without luck to rid herself of the ache between her legs and the one that pulled at her heart.

It felt as if strings were wrapped around it and Langdon was the one holding their ends. Or just maybe he had strings around his heart too and she was the one pulling his. There were no doubt any more of what he wanted and certainly no doubt about the attraction that affected the both of them.

With honesty, she came to the conclusion that the only thing that stood in the way was her stubbornness and the need to know one simple truth, what was he?

“I hope to whatever god you believe in you feel just as frustrated as me,” Oya uttered her voice somewhere between a whine and a curse. Irritably she threw a pillow through the room, listening to it softly hit the wall with a pat and fall to the floor.

 

* * *

 

Pushing the soil over the seed Oya wiped at her brow with dirty hands before letting them hover over the small hill of it. Closing her eyes and whispering a few words, her tongue curling them into reality, letting the energy she had access to flow through her and down into her palm, letting tendrils fall from there and into the soil.

Slowly the seed began to grow, spurting up into the light with a green finger, growing and feeding on the energy. She let it grow until the plant reached a few centimetres and then she cut the line between it and her.

Satisfied with the result she gave it water, caring for it and nurturing it so that it’d grow faster.

On her knees, she moved to the one beside the new addition, fingers going over the leaves looking for flaws to pick at. Her hands and legs were dirty, the soil underneath her nails and sticking on her skin. The expensive cream dress Michael had provided all but ruined.

“Have you ever made something grow, Mr. Langdon?” Oya asked when she felt his presence behind her. It was the first time he had visited the greenhouse and she could feel this eyes look through the various herbs she had planted, she had made grow with the little magic she had.

“No,” he admitted. She rose to her feet and walked to the table scattered with seeds and potted plants, finding a rose seed.

“Your power seems more malevolent, like mine,” she said and walked to an empty lot, toes digging into the ground. Michael followed her with childish curiosity. “But you can use it for much more if you want to.” Pushing the soil away until a perfect hole was created she let the seed drop into it and pushed the soil back over before looking up at Michael.

“Would you like to try?” It was funny to see him look almost uncomfortable by the thought. He had used his power to wither and kill, darkness evident and clinging onto his power, much like her own. She recognized it and if he were like her, he also had droplets of light, often hidden by a layer of laced darkness.

If the goddess of the underworld could make things grow, he could too.

Almost reluctant he crouched down, letting her take his hands in hers, leading them over the buried seed. He looked at her, face in a mask she couldn’t decipher, waiting for her to tell him what to do.

“Reach out, let your powers flow to your palms and form strings into the soil,” she softly murmured. “Then you tug at those strings and send energy through them, letting the seed grow root and let the sprout seek the light.”

Without breaking eye contact she felt his power reach out, a tendril softly caress her cheek unconsciously. His energy grew, his hands beginning to burn against hers. Even Though they were inside a wind gushed through the greenhouse, rustling the plants with a singing whish. Time speed up, the plant sprouting through the ground and into the light pushed by his magic until the first flower, red as blood, bloomed. It grew and grew, more flowers blooming until they withered.

For a moment every plant grew in the greenhouse, blooming and withering until they were all withered and orange, dying or dead.

And their eyes hadn’t broken contact.

“You’re reaching too far,” she said, retracting her hands from his. In a blink of an eye, he pulled his to him, an expression on his face that was unplaceable. With a clenched jaw he rose, hands in balls at his sides and knuckles white. Puzzled she looked at him, disregarding that he had killed her entire garden in a matter of moments.

“I fear I don’t have the talent for creating life,” he said with a strain in his voice, almost angry.

“You’ve have brought someone back from the dead, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but that was… different,” Michael voiced with a strange pondering. “Creating life from nothing and breathing life into someone is vastly different.”

Oya grazed the withered rose bush and watched as the prickly brown leaf broke off from the stem and fell down to the other leaves. Intently she looked at it, picking the withered parts away to reveal one single green stem that ended in a red rose. “Nature is resilient, Mr. Langdon. You may chop it down, you may burn or drown it, but nature will always find a way. There’s a balance to everything.” The thorn pricked her finger when she inspected it and she stood, looking at her middle finger and how a single drop of blood formed at the puncture.

Michael took her hand looking at the blood with fascination. Even goddesses bleed, anything that bleeds can die, but by the powers that be, she’d only return to her turf, at least that’s what she guessed.

“Balance,” Michael drawled and looked through his eyelashes at her. “Is so boring, isn't it? Chaos is much more amusing.”

She nodded agreeing. “Besides, it took me 6 years to not kill every plant I guided along with magic.”

Michael raised her hand until her finger was inches from his mouth, still looking at her with a darkened and sultry gaze that invoked a burning between her legs. He brought them to his lips and then into his mouth, a hot tongue lapping up the blood in a hungry way.

Her breath hitched and jaw clenched.

As fast as it happened as fast it was over, this time he left her with a smirk on his lips, hands folded behind his back while he walked out, leaving her in ruins among her withered plants.

When he was gone she released her breath and fell to her knees, entirely puzzled. It felt like a dream or a nightmare depending on how she needed to look at it. Maybe it was just that, a dream.

_God, she hoped it was a dream._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please it'd help a lot to get comments and notes on the writing, and if you find something that looks horribly wrong please point it out to me so I can fix it.


	4. When the truth comes out so does the sin

She was done being kept in secrecy. Done waiting around and hoping to just fall over the answers to her questions. Something was drawing on her, pulling her towards the only solution she could come up with.

And that solution was to go straight for some answers, straight to the source. Michael had disappeared into the room behind the wooden door of frustrating secrecy and that’s when she hurried up the stairs to her room, pushing open her bag of wonders and produced a gilded knife. Sitting on the floor with her legs folded beneath her, she pushed up the white silk dress to reveal her tattoo of a snake, it slithering down her leg with its head towards her feet, black scales so detailed it almost seemed real.

A few inches beneath its head she cut into her tight. The pain was a mere sting and not worthy of note. Blood drawn lines over her skin and dripped to the floor. For a moment nothing happened and then she felt it move beneath her skin. The feeling was strange, a dull pain and the expanse of her skin pulled over its form.

She hissed when it moved forward pushing its way out of the cut she made, its black scales glistening with her blood and tongue darting out to smell the air. It curled in front of her a moment before slithering over the floor leaving a trail of blood slowly drawing out behind it.

Oya rose from her position and followed it out of her room, with blood still running down her leg and staining the white dress that wrapped so tightly around her in every way that counted. She followed it down the stairs and away from Michaels room where she thought it’d lead her. Instead, it slithered over the dark concrete floor, no longer leaving a path of blood, now she was the one that did the path making.

It stopped in front of the oak door, circling around and looking up at it with a hiss. Oya’s heart drummed rapidly, palms wet with sweat and adrenalin shooting through her veins.

“Show me,” she whispered to it and it answered with a lulled hiss disappearing beneath the door. For a split second, she wondered if it had gone away, that she had lost it to the mysteries within but the door clicked open before her, revealing a staircase covered in darkness.

Her snake slithered further down making her follow, her hands trailing over the walls for support. Darkness ate her up bit by bit and then she passed the curve of the staircase and saw a light at the end.

A hissing grew louder. It should have made her turn around but she was too far now, pulled by the strangeness and the need to see. Her snake reached the bottom and perked up, watching.

The light danced as it touched her toes, growing for every step she took. Candlelight, warmly glowing. And then she reached the bottom and saw, her heart stopping and then starting with a more rapid force.

In the middle of a bloody pentagram, knelt down and hunched over was Michael, blood trails running down his arms from wounds that had long since healed. His eyes black as in her vision, hiding the blue. His golden hair seemed even more golden in this light, against his bloody work that was smeared over his naked form.

Her heart was logged in her throat. She should be scared, _anyone should be scared of what was before her_ but instead, she was satisfied by the truth. His energy wrapped around her ankles and drifted upwards like it had done so many times before but this time, this time it was with a sinful intent she couldn’t deny had an effect on her.

She was seeing him for what he was and it was all clear.

The goddess of the underworld didn’t turn away but was rather drawn in. Her snake slithered further towards the pentagram only to be met by a snake he had conjured from his blood. Her snake hissed at its counterpart rising and his snake mirrored it perfectly, the only difference being it’s dark red tips on the scales.

When she looked up at Langdon again his eyes were on hers. With ease, he stood and the nakedness of his being became all too apparent. With stubborness, her eyes remained fixed on his, watching as they turned to a sultry blue.

“Have this answered your questions?” He drawled with desire shaping every word. Oya swallowed, feeling herself grow increasingly wetter. The strings that pulled at her revealed themselves as a bond forming between them. Though she hated the notion of fate and destiny, she felt that there were no other words to convey exactly what made her stay.

“Yes,” she breathed. Michael moved closer, every motion calculated and executed perfectly. The cool wall send a shock through her body when she took a step back and collided with it. “You’re the antichrist.”

He almost purred at her words, head tilting in observance. “Does that scare you?”

“It should,” she whispered, jumping when a bloody finger caressed over the fabric of her dress.

“ _But_?”

“But,” she continued. “No. It doesn't.”

Dragging his finger down the deep v line of her dress he let it continue until it was at her thigh. Everything about him had been to seduce, just like she theorised. From every movement, every carefully picked word to the way he smelled, was to pull you in and devour you whole. She realised this and was still left with a wanting.

“So this is your truth?” She croaked out, her body reacting to the way his fingers hitched up the soft fabric in a dangerous game.

“Partially,” he teased. “Is this what you wanted to know?”

“Yes.”

“Does it make you trust me?” His finger grazed skin and it jolted her into action, wrapping her fingers around his wrist with the intent of keeping his fingers where they were to keep her focused on the question at hand. But the intent wavered, letting him still graze a ghostly line up her thigh, past her wound.

“It shouldn’t,” she uttered the truth. That’s when she realised that if he truly wanted to keep it a secret she couldn't have been able to get in. He wanted her here, wanted her squirming before him until she admitted to herself what he knew from the start, that they were bound. “But it does.”

Michael removed his hand that had trailed up her dress with an abruptness that snapped back at her, only making the ache more prominent. His bloodied hand trailed up once more, his fingers tilting her face towards him as he leaned further in, his brazen heat engulfing her.

It was a silent dare for her to make the first step. He played with her and this was his way of saying, ‘if you want it, then take it’.

“Michael,” she breathed his name and watched as his eyes all but rolled back in his head in bliss. When they finally fell back on her again there was an insatiable hunger in them, one that told her he’d devour her whole if she allowed. And like a dam breaking within, she pressed forward catching his lips with hers in a thrillingly scorching of lips.

At her touch Michael melted into her, his power filling her up with a dangerous desire, wrapping around her being and digging into her soul. With blazent touches, she felt him push the thin straps over the edge of her shoulders and let the fabric fall to pool at the floor, ruined by blood and never to be worn again. With his hands pressing her naked body to his and his lips melting away the last traces of resilience, she gave into him fully.

With a cooler touch than his own, her fingers made their way up his chest and locked around his neck. Those sinful lips of his were as hungry as his stare had been, they left almost bruising marks on her own and with his tongue, he apologized.

It was maddening the way they fit.

With his hand trailing lower, he lifted her up and she responded with a surprised moan, one that made him smirk against the skin of her neck. She wrapped her legs around his waist and felt a hardness brush against her core. With his arm around her waist, he carried her to the middle of the room, into the bloody pentagram and casually placed her there.

The drying blood stuck to her skin, tainted the suntouched softness of it and created something entirely unholy.

With teeth grazing the skin of her neck in heated nibbles Oya moaned, her fingers running through his hair, nails grazing the scalp. Now Michael moaned, his hand finding its way between her legs to massage slow and agonizing circles over her clit. Michael ventured lower leaving blossoming marks drizzle down her neck, over the crook of her collarbone and down to her chest.

She looked down at herself and watched as he took her nipple in his mouth the very moment a single finger dipped into her center. At their own accord, her hips moved after his hand, begging for more but found that he was merciless.

They had barely done anything and she could already feel herself coil at his accord. He played her like he could do nothing else and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. Slowly he moved his fingers, circling and moving in a way that drove her up the walls. In an attempt to keep some form of pride, she bit into her own hand trying to stifle the moans that wanted to leave her swollen lips.

With a fire in his eyes, Michael removed his fingers, coming to look straight at her face. Blood was smeared up his neck and she imagined she’d be smeared in it too by then. Around him swayed his hair in a golden glory that tickled at her skin. She bit her lip when he removed her hand from them.

“Let me hear you,” he drawled, every word drowned in desire. Her lips chased his and won, drawing him into her and pressing her heels against his lower back, wanting nothing more than to feel him. Breathless she moaned and Michael swallowed it up with a thirst for more.

Without further due and in one swift motion he thrust himself into her. This time there was a chorus of moans falling from both of them. The sounds they made were lewd and sinful.

Oya dragged her nails down between his shoulder blades leaving a path of angry red marks. The pain stung with a fever of pleasure that dragged a gruntled moan from his throat, almost animalistic. He snapped his hips at her with a merciless hardness, digging deeper into her, deeper than she ever felt. The feeling was addicting, it made her toes curl and body beg for more. So much more.

“Fuck,” she cursed hoarsely, lifting her hips to meet his. While using one arm to hold himself up so that he didn’t crush her, his other arm tightened around her waist as he thrust into her with a relentlessness she never experienced before.  With his lips leaving soft kisses at her neck and his tongue licking up the salty sweat building, Oya’s head fell back.

Not only was he fucking her like she had never been fucked before, not only did he reveal small glimpses of softness only seen and felt by her, but he was also pouring his energy into her, twisting the spell to break it, knock, knock, knocking at it to obliterate it’s ties around her neck, around what made her so much more.

With a vengeance she tethered closer to the edge with a coil wound up inside, waiting to break loose. “M-Michael,” her voice broke. Her fingers pushed back his tousled hair revealing the face of an angle but eyes of the devil.

A line between his brows made itself known, his body straining to keep together. The snap of his hips became faster and harder as he got close to his own breaking point. He tried to say something bit his voice broke into a groan of pleasure and his forehead fell to hers.

They looked each other in the eye when finally the coil broke, a burning sensation dragging over her back annulling the spell, breaking it open. For a moment it was as if the world vanished into nothing as her powers were released with her orgasm, her walls clamping down around him bringing him with her over the edge.

The candlelights went out only to shoot up again with an even bigger flame, her powers unfolding and mixing with his own.

Michael thrusted into her a few more times before stilling, drained by the performance. They looked at each other and both saw something new. A powerful goddess to match himself and a man more complex than any other.

He pulled out, falling to the floor beside her. There was only the sound of their heavy breathing, torsos moving up and down rapidly and the sound of their pulse in their ears. For a while they just stayed there, unmoving and panting.

She felt his seed drip out of her and the way her body slowly cooled. Everything was sticky. Sticky with sweat, sticky with blood and sticky with whatever else there were. Her snake slithers up her leg to return to its place as ink on her skin. As soon as it crawled through the opening in her thigh, it seized to exist other than the tattoo. The wound itself healed with a touch of magic.

The power that had been released knitted in the air with electricity. It hummed over her skin, moved between her limbs, tendrils stretching from years of captivity. She felt free. Liberated. But beneath there was a worry, one she had refused to ever think about in the belief that this time would never come and now it was here. It was a scared little thought spinning the tale of not being able to control the power that had been freed. It was a shadow hidden in the corner of her mind that was otherwise flooded with newfound flexibility.

She rolled onto her side to look at the man beside her and found his eyes already on her. Even with no words spoken there was a softness in the air between them, one that required no immediate response. They saw each other and accepted what they saw.

“What will you do with your new found freedom?” Michael questioned and broke the silence. There was a hint of something in his voice but hidden enough for her not to understand what it was. It was a big question and the answer heavy.

“I don’t know, never had that prospect before,” she said and felt how their energy twined. Reaching towards him she brushed a wild strand of hair out of the way, the notion of it intimate and on a level, neither of them had experienced before. “I need to learn control before venturing out into the world. Who would be more perfect for teaching me than antichrist himself.”

Michael grabbed her wrist hovering above him and for a moment she thought it was a rejection, then he placed a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist before letting go. For someone born of evil he had the strings of fate wrapped tightly around him, cutting into flesh and exposing what could be beneath.

“Stay.” He said the word, one single word that held more meaning than most. Her heart swelled and she hated herself for it. There was a battle of voices going on inside of her, the voice of absolute reason saying that whatever it was with Michael it was a trap, _he_ was a trap. That what she saw before her was an illusion and putting more weight into it would only cause further harm. _He fucked you to break the spell but what he got out of it was your willingness to open yourself up to him. You cannot play the devil, he plays you. Let the him in and you shall suffer._

Then there was the other side of the voice, the one that felt the pull between them like gravity, that clearly said _And how deliciously we shall suffer._

“This wasn’t just for the spell, was it?” she questioned.

“Are you asking or hoping for something more?” Her heartbeat drummed in her ears but her face remained the same, eyes not wavering from his.

“Both.”

With a strange affection, Michael lifted her hand to his and intertwined their fingers, much like their powers were. They complimented each other in a way that made the soul rest easy, learning to pierce themselves together through each other. “You somehow manage to capture my interest beyond what anyone else ever has. I intend to figure out what makes you tick,” he rolled to his side, the two inches apart. “And why your power calls mine.”

Oya swallowed, her heart threatening to shatter her bones. There was a chill to his tone, to his interest and that chill made the ache reappear in spite of the intent. Maybe they were lying to themselves or just maybe they were being the most honest they’ve ever been.

“I also wanted to fuck you senseless.”

“And you did,” Oya laughed the past doubts forgotten at the moment. Michael smiled at her then, a genuine smile she wanted to learn much more about.

  



	5. The Strongest Piece

Michael walked around her, his eyes trailing the fine skin of her body, watching with an amused grin on his face. He came to stand behind her, sliding his hands around her hips, his breath tickling over her skin before soft lips came to peck kisses on her bare shoulders.

“Concentrate,” he drawled slowly, moving the hair covering her neck away to press a kiss on her throat, delicate and holding so much mischief it was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand.

“I’m trying,” she grunted back at him annoyed by how easily he was distracting her from the task at hand. “You’re making it incredibly hard.”

“You should be able to do this even with distracting,” he said against the shell of her ear. She closed her eyes, frown settled deeply on her face, both in annoyance and concentration. Michael had made her go through ‘the seven wonders’ to see how powerful she really was. Control of her powers had been hard at first but she was slowly learning, even with Michael constantly trying to distract her from the goal at hand.

It had become a game to see which one of them would cave first. A game of touches, of aching needs gone unfulfilled, of playful words and a flick of magic. It was maddening.

“Reach into the place between life and death,” he said and pressed his body against hers. The need to lean into his touch, his warmth, was hard to resist but stubbornness was by far the biggest wall between giving in and not doing so.

“It’s easier to create life itself than it is to bring something back,” she huffed and shuffled her hips back to make him let go.

In front of her were the last test, a dead crow with it’s broken wings and empty eyes. Her hands were held out before her palms wet by sweat she desperately wanted to dry off. Making plants grow was easier than this, maybe because she’d done it so many times before.

Her powers had a tendency to rise and fall, going from what she was used to and then to exploding, it had made some of the other tests go horribly wrong and horribly right, all at the same time.

The crow moved, the broken wings creaking and snapping. She reached further into the darkness, her heart speeding up the further she went. Tendrils of magic wrapped around the animal, stringing together its wounds with a sicking sound, the bones setting back together.

“That’s it,” Michael added with a pride to his tone. A surge went through her, her powers filling her up with warmth that made every cell in her body vibrate with exhilaration.

The crow basked its wings coming to stand, its feathers catching the light falling in from the windows, head moving around in an attempt to understand. It crooked at them, unsettled by the strings that still wrapped around it, pulling further into its existence.

Her eyes snapped open and efficiently severing the line. The bird looked up at her and basked it wings with a happy craw. Oya kneeled down and rested her head on her arms, observing the creature she had just brought back from death.

“Did I pass your tests?” She questioned, looking past the bird to Michael. “Or is there something else you want me to do?”

“You passed with tremendous flare.”

* * *

 

Her fingers followed the intricate carved patterns made upon the old chess board, looking at it with intrigue. If she counted out her own things she had brought with her to the house, this piece of art was by far the oldest thing belonging to Michael. The board was lined with trimms of gold upon the ebony wood. Each piece was delicately carved and softly lined with gold. The white side were of white gold, cold upon the touch.

“Do you play?” Michael questioned as he moved into the library. He moved with such elegance, a black cat stalking the night. Oya tapped the glass of wine with her nail, bringing it to her lips for a taste of the bitter red liquid.

Michael sat down on the chair belonging to the chess board, the back tall and also hand carven. Most likely victorian. His fingers took the black queen from her place, his head tilting.

“I prefer Go,” she answered and slipped into the chair opposing his. Softly, she placed the glass on the floor, freeing her hand. She moved a pawn forward. “But I do play.”

Michael put the queen back in her place and moved his own pawn. And so the game began. From the beginning there were the air of superiority to the game, a feeling that Michael had already planned out every outcome that could possibly happen and were ready for when she made her decision to move a piece. The revelation only became clearer the further into the game they went, with Michael swiftly counter acting everything she did. He was neither on defence or offence.

“Who taught you?” She asked taking his rook.

“Someone from my past.” He took her knight.

“Obviously,” she countered with eye roll.

“He was someone who thought he could change me. Make me a better person,” he sigh and leaned back against the chair, hair standing out wonderfully against the dark wood. Like this he was beautiful, light against dark, angelic in appearance and sin blooming beneath delicate skin.

Oya watched him with recognition, understanding that darkness that hid beneath the surface were there no matter what. It was something you embrace or choose to fight for eternity. Even if you wanted to be good, it would always be there, pulling. With a sigh of her own, she reached down and picked up the glass, taking another sip of the liquid.

Michael’s eyes traveled to her lips, over the skin of her delicate neck, followed along the carvings of her collarbone and then bellow to the softness of her chest so beautifully exposed by her black silk gown. The glass made the smallest of sound as it were placed upon the floor once more.

The game resumed.

At this point she could see her own destruction in the future, by the hand of Michael no less. From the moment they began he had already won. There was nothing she could do change her fate. He had made a perfect trap for her to fall into, assuring her own destruction. And by the gods were it a turn on.

Still she played, seeing her own fall coming and continued nonetheless. Her queen stood and she would not knock it over, not in a million years.

“Why do you think the queen is the most important piece?” She asked and moved her queen to safety for now. Michael looked at her with intrigue, his fingers tracing over his bottom lip in thought, the heavy rings catching the light from the risen moon.

“Tell me.”

“Historically queens have always been oppressed by men, by their kings, superiors,” she told, eyes lingering at the pieces on the board. “But kings have always needed queens, while queens don't necessarily need kings. She’s the strongest piece because she can stand alone if she chooses and when she’s captured the game ends.”

“Some would said the queen is the most fragile for the exact same reason,” Michael countered.

“I suppose, like everything else in life, it depends on perspective,” She said, watching as he moved his piece closer to her end. Once she wanted to be a queen, when her mother and father had turned her away and focused on her sister. She wanted to be a queen, to rule her people as she wanted. To be ruthless and above others. It was a dream then, a fantasy. Then she came to her powers and proved herself not only a queen of the underworld but a goddess. But it was lonely, more than she had ever imagined.

“Why continue the game when you already know you’ve lost?” Michael asked. Maybe she had finally found someone like her, meant to be a king, a god, with the darkness inside and isolated because of it. He moved his peice to her queen, taking her and ending the game. “Checkmate.”

“Why not?” She asked with a sigh, rising from the chair and walked towards the window. The moon stood full upon the starry sky, its ghostly light casting the world into something that looked otherworldly. Behind her she heard Michael move. “If I can see my end coming and can do nothing to prevent it, I wouldn't just roll over and die.”

He came up behind her, his reflection as clear as hers, face beside one another with their eyes locked. It was a game they played and it was getting increasingly harder to resist losing for the satisfaction of fulfilling another need. Removing the hair from her neck, he traced ghostly kisses over her skin, the mere touch enough curl in her stomach with an insatiable need. Her nipples hardened at the mere thought, showing themselves through the thin fabric.

She turned to lean against the glass, her hips shot out and head tilted to the side. “I’d want to do as much damage as I possibly can and take as many of my enemies down with me.”

“They say a woman’s vengeance is the fiercest to exist,” Michael all but purred, with a soft smirk on his lips. Slowly, his hand crept to softly wrap around her throat, the tips of his fingers forcing her head to turn towards him, forcing her full attention to the closeness that had pulled him in, lips dangerously close to her own. Again the question were who would give in first? “When she is ruthless _she. Is. Ruthless._ ”

“Is that what you want?” She whispered, teasing him by pressing her hips to his and even more so when her tongue darted out to taste the perfection that were his lips. It was just a millisecond, but it brought a wildfire to his eyes. Lips that longed to clash inches from one another.

“ _What I want is this fucking world_.” He leaned closer and she chased his lips but found his hold around her neck tightening, holding her in place and out of reach. She wanted to say she’d give it to him but the words never formed on her tongue, they never left the stages of a simple thought being traced in her mind.

Instead she felt her stubbornness to crumble into dust. The ache between her legs all to prominent to keep her from winning the game.

“Fuck me,” she said with a boldness that made him chuckle. His free hand traveled downwards and stopping over his crotch, Oya’s eyes followed the ringed hand and snapped her eyes to his. He raised his brow at her.

“Fuck you?” The words were drowned in cockyness, the embodiment of sin. She could feel how wet she was, basically dripping with it, the slickness began to run slowly down her thighs. She should have worn panties but the outline of it in this dress would have been illegal.

“Yes, fuck me,” she moaned against his hand, the vibrations traveling up his arm. Michael drew in breath with great satisfaction in the form of an smirk, a smirk that grew when Oya carefully pushed one strap from her shoulder, the dress falling away from her chest and revealing a perked up breast just for him. His eyes roamed her chest before turning to her eyes once more, his gaze darkened and hazed by lust.

“You could make angels break their resolve,” Michael whispered with a hoarse voice. He accepted her lose as victory in their little game and decided to reward her with a quick single kiss to the lips. Oya chased his lips but were forced back once more, her hands wrapping around the wrist that held her.

In the silver light streaming in from the outside, washing over her shoulders, forming a halo of stars on her black hair, with eyes half lidded in need and lips parted by silent pants, she looked like a goddess, truly. A goddess trapped by his hand, begging with need.

“It’s not an angels resolve I want to break right now, it’s yours,” she said, catching her red bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it, the motion bringing attention to them. “So either fuck me or I’ll go take care of myself.”

“It’s tempting to let you go, to know you’ll try and satisfy a need only I can fulfil.”

“But you’d much rather fuck me, right here, right now.”

“Yes,” he all but growled at her before pressing a hard kiss on her lips, tongue trailing over them for entrance. Breathy open mouthed kisses were exchanged, his hand traveling to push the other side of the dress over her shoulder and pulled at the bottom to force it over her hips. The black silk fell to the floor and created a pool of ink. With her fingers, she curled them into his locks, pressing him further into her.

She moaned against his mouth, circling her hips against his and felt his hand travel between them.

“So wet and slick,” he groaned, fingers making quick work of her, drawing circles and dipping in between her folds in shallow thrusts. Her body reeled from the contact, blood singing in her ears and heart speeding up.

Oya made quick work of his buttons, opening up the collar of his black shirt to trace open mouthed kisses upon his skin, teeth scraping and nibbling at it. When he moaned it was music to her ears. It was a moan from deep within, one that rumbled within his chest and vibrated through his throat. She smiled against his skin.

In quick succession to one another Michael spun her around and kicked her legs open, his hand traveling over the skin upon her back, nails scraping red lines deliciously before ending on her ass. Her breath cough in her throat when she heard him zip up his pants, biting her lip to keep steady.

In the reflection, she could see him working, something fevered about the way his lips were swollen and hair tousled in imperfection, by her doing nonetheless.

The ache grew and her slickness began to run even more, core warm and ready.

Unlike the first time, he now entered her slowly, letting her feel every inch go in, feel him stretch her out and how hard he was, just for her. Their moans collided in the silence, ringing out as a prayer of sin. Michaels fingers dug into the skin of her hips, undoubtedly leaving purple pedals on her skin to be seen tomorrow. A reminder of the now.

Oya watched him in the reflection, watched as his head fell back and eyes rolled with the wave of pleasure falling over him. It was the most attractive thing she’d ever seen.

What began as slow picked up its pace, dragging out and in with a controlled tempo. Seeing him fuck her through the reflection only brought a new flare to it, to see how her own expression changed as warmth sprung up her spine when he hit just the right spot. How she stood there, bare and with legs spread, vulnerable and still in control. The area’s where her hands touched the glass, holding her up and binding her to reality, condensed started to form around it. Leaving prints to be seen tomorrow.

A moan fell from her lips, when his hand tangled into her locks, the tension on her scalp stinging in a delicious way. His tempo changed, quickening with the snap of his hips and the messy sound of skin hitting skin filling up the room. He groaned behind her, toes curing in his shoes and sweat beginning to pearl at his brows.

“Fuck, Michael,” she groaned when he hit her g-spot over and over, the feeling lighting her body on fire, shivers traveling down her spine.

“Y-you feel, ah-,” a moan cut him off. Oya looked at him through the reflection, heart swelling in her chest. “ _You feel so good_.”

She couldn't help the fluttering that ran through her with shivers. Feeling her heart soaring at how thick his voice sounded, at how he had decided to vocalize what she made him feel. Her walls clenched around him bringing out a string of lewd sounds from his lips.

The first time he had fucked her, he had not said a single thing other than curses. This time, however, was different.

Abruptly, Michael vanished from her warm core, her walls clenching around nothing. In confusion she looked over her shoulders but before she could connect her eyes with his, she was turned around and forced against the window, her sweaty skin sticking to it.  

Lifted her up, a squeal couldn’t help but escape her. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around him, feeling his hot erection against her folds and signed at the feeling. Feverish kisses were plastered on her neck, up her jaw and to her lips. With ease he slipped into her again thrusting with an almost violent tempo, that made her mind go blank with pleasure.

“Let me hear you,” he voiced breathless. “I want to hear your sounds, I want to hear just how good I make you feel.”

“You-you make me feel so good. Fuck, Michael, I don’t think anyone has made me feel this good,” Oya stuttered out when his pace became frantic. Her hips move with his, wet kisses lingering on skin and breathless moans finding their way into existence.

Bliss comes with a sudden delight, stars seemingly shimmering inside her eyelids, white bleeding into black. Her walls convulse around him, the coil within snapping and releasing the build up tension that made the air electric. She basked in the feeling of him inside her when he came, filling her up with his seed while he groaned profanities into her mouth.

His hips slowed down to a stop and the two of them panting. Holding her up began to weigh on him, legs beginning to shake. The natural thing would be to let her down but instead he held her tightly, holding her closer to his body and began to walk. Her hands clutched at his shirt even tighter and her legs that also trembled clamped around him.

He walked to the chair he had occupied earlier and sat down, with her still on him, with him still in her. A sigh of relief left him while he leaned back, head resting against the wood and hair tousled in curls around his rosey cheeks.

Oya shifted to rest comfortably on his lap, hands uncurling to fix his shirt by flattening it. Cold began to nibble at her sweaty skin. She bet that if she looked in the mirror she’d be as flushed as him.

Michael softly traced the lines of the snake on her thigh. The sensation was tickling, warm. It made a shiver run up her spine and goosebumps form.

The moment was intimate and the act itself pure.

They were the only to people in the world. In this moment there were no hidden objectives, no past to catch up to them, no masks to uphold.

“What is it?” He asked with a raw and almost tired voice. Oya played with his locks finding that her fingers needed to touch him, hair, the marks she had left on his neck and collar, his shirt. _Him_.

“Blood magic,” she answered with just as strained voice as his. “It came to me one night after my powers began to show. Like the crows, they spoke to me, whispers. Sometimes my powers sing to me. I don’t know why or how but they do. They told me what to do.”

With those crystal blue eyes of his, he looked at her in ernest, not with the allure or general fascination his eyes usually hold for her but with something like pure interest. She let her hands drag down his chest and then restlessly up again, feeling the soft fabric under her palms.

“There’s two sides to this ritual, one with animals or familiars as some would call it and one to bind humans.” Suddenly nervous, she licked her lips and hesitated. “It binds them to you, they become an extension of your power or a manifestation of them. You let them draw blood, a bite or a scratch and then you extend into them. They appear as tattoos on your body and when they are to be released you need to bear the pain as they tear out of your skin. It can be violent, especially with the crows but it's worth it.”

Michael continued to trace the tattoo while his other hand softly caressed the skin on her other thigh. With a whisper he murmured, ”And the binding of humans?”

Oya hummed in thought, head tilting so that her hair fell over her shoulder to cover her chest. How could she possibly explain the intricacy of something like that. It was something ancient.

“It’s the binding of two souls. It takes more than just drawing blood, you consume it and unlike binding animals it won't leave you with a tattoo of that person on your body,” she smiled at the thought of having someone's face tattooed on her body and found it hilarious. No, that was definitely not what binding of the soul would do. “Spiritually they become a part of you, you’ll always be connected and with magic like that it’s powerful. It can be the greatest thing, I’d imagine, or leave you in great pain. I’m not sure how to explain this but it’s like marriage of the soul except marriage can’t really contain the grandity of it.”  
“Two become one?”

“Kind of. Breaking it would come at a great cost, with great pain,” she said, trying to explain it to the fullest.

“It’d be an horrible divorce,” Michael chuckled lightly and Oya couldn’t help but laugh nodding to agree.

“This kind of magic takes more than blood, it’s to be made with something profound, with a comet shooting across the sky, the eclipse, something like that. It’s not just some parlor trick, it's serious and dangerous, to give part of your soul to someone else.”

“Metaphorically giving someone your heart.”

“Exactly.” With that being said, Oya raised from her position on Michael's lap, disconnecting them. His shoulders were used for support, firm and strong beneath her hands. Soft caress trailed over her thighs as she left him. The awareness of feeling of his produce leaking out of her, the feeling of being both filled and empty left her feeling strangely awkward.

Michael watched as she walked to her dress, watched her body move, the curves sculpted with fine edges and soft skin. “You look beautiful,” he flattered with soft voice.

Oya couldn’t help but grin. There were something there, beneath the surface and it was both frightening and flattering.  The compliment pulled the strings of her heart and what was what was so dangerous. He was still a man of many secrets, a man with so much power at the fingertips, with masks created for one purpose and that was to manipulate.

Could she really trust him or was she panicking because the bond between them became more apparent as time passed?

“My my, is that flatter I hear?” She teased and took the dress in hand. Covering up the lovely petales of bruises and both of their juices were too late. Instead of lapping onto the doubt that grew in her mind she chose to forget it, to enjoy the company. “Are you growing soft, evil spawn?”

Michael halfheartedly glared at her, somewhere between bevillterment and disapproval. His cock was neatly tucked away now but his pants were ruined with stains. “I would be careful. If you were anyone else, you’d end up dead.”

“Killing me would just send me down to my throne prematurely,” she commented, walking through the room. Warmth were replaced with cold, her skin cooled down and sticky form their activity. She needed a bath.

“The underworld or hell is my father's domain now,” Michael said with icy voice that matched his eyes. Be afraid, be very afraid. She wasn't.

“Oh I’m not interested in stealing his crown, I just want my cut of the cake.” She picked up the glass from the floor and walked towards Michael again, his eyes following her as always.”But for now I want to conquer this world in some form.”

Their lips met in a chased kiss. She let him take the glass of red wine from her fingers.

“Goodnight, Oya.” His voice and eyes had softened.

“Goodnight, devil spawn,” she chuckled over her shoulder as she left the room. In the quiet she could faintly hear his chuckle and it made her heart flutter.

Michael Langdon was most definitely dangerous.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was the end huh? I fucking hated it and now I gonna have to fix it.  
> There's so much that's wrong with that ending, I have so many questions that are left unanswered and now I have to FIX IT.  
> So, so far I have 3 possible endings in mind.  
> \---  
> Anyway, please take time to leave a comment or something because it really helps me find inspiration to continue.


	6. When the spirit wanderers things does not go unseen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a rape scene, if you want to avoid that scene skip the cursive part of the fic.

Placed on the bedside table were a thin yellow candle. It was the first thing that had been done as soon as she had settled in. The yellow candle with a matching flame were to be kept there, to be kept an eye on. It linked in with the spell she had placed on the old house so that if any supernatural being were to cross over into her land she’d know. For weeks now it had been lit.

And then it wasn't.

It left a gnawing feeling deep inside, something nagging at her to make her realise _something_. It was important and it was frightening.

And so she decided that a simple vision wouldn’t suffice. Visions were scattered, they were focused on snippets out of place and mostly they were left for interpretation. For simple visions like that you’d need to touch something that were there in the moment you needed to see. She had nothing.

So she began plucking herbs from her garden, crushed it in a mortar to release its juices. Mugwort for scrying, Star anise for clairvoyance, Bay Leaf for its sanctity and visions all mixed together with soil from her garden, bone from a raven and ash from a burned oak. From it, she derived a small potion to be poured in a body of water and that’s exactly what she did.o

The bath was filled up to a critical point, the potion mixed in long ago. In the water, she drizzled Catnip, the green leafs floating at the surface, and essence of Eucalyptus for the rituality of its cleansing powers. Blossoms of blue rosemary and the stalks of it floated in the water too. It worked as purification. Whatever was on the other side, she’d rather not drag pieces of it with her, nor did she want to get lost to the inbetween.

“What are you doing?” Michael questioned leaning against the entrance of her bathroom with his arms folded over his chest. Oya remained on her knees, drawing symbols on the floor with white chalk. They looked like disfigured stick men or as if a 3-year-old tried and failed to draw any form of animal.

“My place got a visitor,” she said while finishing up the last symbols. Michael had impeccable taste when it came to baths, this tub was perfect for these sort of things, standing at enough distance from everything else to make a circle around it. With the small bundles of herbs, in between the marks, were emeralds and moonstones placed. “Or visitors, I don't know yet but I intend to find out.”

“There are other ways to find out than this,” Michael commented. The way he looked at the set up told her that he had never seen or done anything like this and it made her wonder.

“This is how I learned to do it,” she brushed off her hands on her silk robes, standing up. She tied her hair up in a mess that made it look more like an unkempt bush than anything else, with stray tots falling down her neck. “Many of the herbs open up your mind and lets you wander through the inbetween, the symbols are for warding and protection as well as helping the door open and the stones helps with protecting energies. I’m sure the ritual has developed over the years but this is what I know, what I remember.”

Michael remained standing in the doorway, his face in an unreadable mask that she couldn’t quite see past. It almost seemed as if he wary of it. Maybe he had to be, walking through the inbetween weren't easy, if you were lead astray you’d remain atray. Even if you’ve done it before it could be dangerous.

The ritual she had done when she came here was one akin to this, and it left her drained and with bruises. Worse things could happen.

But as with all other things, worse things could _always_ happen, letting that stop you would effectively stop you from doing _everything, anything._

A little thought planted itself deep in her mind, at the very outskirts. What if there were something he didn’t want her to see?

“Haven't you ever seen a ritual like this? Who taught you magic?”

“My teachers were far more focused on getting me through the seven wonders than to teach me witchcraft,” he said with a frown. Oya looked at him in surprise.

So his teachers had focused on passing the supreme tests rather than teaching ways to use his magic. Even if he were naturally gifted and incredibly clever, raw power like his could reach so much further if he had been taught the ancient crafts. Everything he knew he had taught himself, she realised. Like her.

She folded her arms over her chest like him. “Did they know?”

“That I was the antichrist? No, mostly they didn’t question my powers, they were far more occupied with making me the new supreme, the alpha,” he said with a hint of a smile on his lips that were quickly turned into a frown.

“A male supreme? Unlikely, history has shown that the only supremes that can exist is female. You’re the antichrist, not a witch or a wizard or whatever they call themselves, the supremacy wouldn’t be passed to you.” There was something alarming about this mask of his, eyes forming a wild storm and by the way, he withheld his tendrils of magic she knew she was on thin ice.

“It didn’t matter, I won, will win regardless.” She walked to him and caressed his cheek.

“Because you have devil juju on your side,” she teased trying to ease his demeanour. It helped, he dropped his arms and leaned into her touch. “And you also have a goddess who owes you a favour.”

Oya turned and felt his hands come to her shoulders, fingers slipping past the neck and holding onto it as she stepped out of the silk, naked. He stood with her silk in hand, letting it fall over his arm for her to take when she returned from the bath.

She sunk into the warm waters, the already critical water line rising even higher. Warmth engulfed her body. Before sinking further into the water, she looked over at Michael who stood patiently outside the ritual circle and watched.

“How did you learn? Your teachers were as unlikely to teach you anything like this as mine were,” he asked.

“When you’re not the prodigy you tend to live in the shadows. I stole a whole lot of my mother's books and read them in secret. The things I remember are the rituals I now know, it’s by far everything but it is _something_ ,” she answered. Most of the rituals had ceased to work, things get forgotten over time or changed. What she knew she had worked for, she had tested her way through it and if it worked, well then it fucking worked.

Like many things throughout time, pieces of magic dwindled. The gods that were had fallen and things changed. That was how time worked. Witches themselves are said to be going extinct, their blood beginning to run thin with magic.

Oppose to them, being a goddess meant you had the possibility of so much more and with that you were a threat, to be hunted and locked away.

Michael would fall into the same category, wouldn’t he? Or just maybe he had the fate of something bigger than one of the last gods on earth.

“Whatever happens do not break the circle before I resurface,” she warned moments before diving fully into the water.

Like before there was nothing, to begin with. Then slowly she began forming in that nothingness. Everything above the waterline nibbling at her ankles was dry, her hair now free and falling over her naked body. Around her was the emptiness, the abyss. She hated this place, the thought of being trapped there for eternity send shivers down her spine. It was a perfect limbo of nothing.

Oya began to walk, invisible theatres guiding her towards where she needed to be. The soil helped with that, to keep her from going astray and focus on finding the path to her old prison.

She stopped and looked sideways. Even though there were nothing there, she felt her soul being pulled, the back of her mind hearing a whisper that so dearly wanted to be heard. It made her heart speed up in fear. The inbetween called to her and something inside wanted to follow, to see what it wanted to show, what that little part of her told her she needed to see.

Ripping her eyes from the spot of black she had been captured by, she continued to walk a straight line forward. Water became soil, still air became warm and windy, around her formed so familiar and haunting scenery that made her heart stop for a moment in fear that being released from this place had been a dream.

The fine rows of herbs had fallen victim to weed. It looked dishevelled and messy, many of the plants now sporting withered parts if it had not died at all. The soil that she had always kept perfectly balanced with water were now dry. Time had really passed.

It wasn’t what she came for.

Oya looked up and observed as two hooded figures entered the premise with a wave of the hand. The spell she had placed on the house from keeping being robbed, broke, the bowl with dried old herbs breaking into. That was the moment her candle went out.

They walked silently through the garden and into her house, hoods still covering their faces. Oya followed at a distance, strangely fearful of their presence. The gnawing feeling returned as nausea, adrenalin beginning to spike in her blood as her heart began drumming. If they were who she thought they were…

One hooded figure revealed themselves. Black hair that was once kept long were now cut to the shoulder, small traces of silver shining through in the light. Her mother turned and revealed the fine turning of time had left small lines upon her face, around her mouth and eyes, and yet she looked youthful. Oya fell to her knees outside of the door, hands gripping onto the wall as a way to keep fast.

“How?” Questioned the other person, her voice soft and young. She pulled back her hood and revealed light blond hair in a braid, eyes that used to be black now a crystal blue. Her sister had much finer and friendlier features. Soft lips the colour of pink and a kinder bow to her jaw.

“I don’t know,” Haesoo answered her daughter, bewildered by her other daughters' disappearance. “The spell was meant to last, she shouldn’t have been able to break it.”  
“Maybe it wasn’t her that broke it,” Ina said and kicked at a pillow on the ground. She walked around the room, fingers trailing over everything in an attempt to bring forth a vision.

“There’s no one powerful enough for that,” Her mother voiced in frustration. Worry made her look older.

“What if there were a lot of them then? We were many when we bound her so what if it is a coven we have to look for and not an individual? Maybe the New Orleans coven was desperate enough.”

“It’s not,” Haesoo said and walked towards the cup placed on the table. _His_ cup. She bend down and took it, eyes looking at it as if she were reading a book. Oya felt herself begin to shake, the tether between this place and her body getting pulled together. It wasn’t long before she had to return. “If it were a coven there’d be left a bigger imprint, of something recognizable. The residue here is… strange, dark. It’s an individual.”

“It's quite similar, isn't it?” Ina asked and came to stand beside her mother.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she clutched the cup and closed her eyes. “Whoever released her is darker than anything I've ever felt and far more dangerous. If they have her by their side then… We have to get her and we have to make sure she’s permanently incapable of being a threat.”

Haesoo turned and looked directly at Oya. No, not directly, through her. Nevertheless, Oya felt as if the world pressed in on her, air not getting to her lungs. Scrambling back she fell off the porch in a mess of arms and legs. The ground only seemed to swallow her up just like the fear. She sank, fighting against the soil, hands grabbing onto clumps of dirt and leaves until her head was covered and everything went black.

* * *

 

_“Why exactly is it so important to get the ginseng when it’s full moon?” Oya asked her sister that had somehow convinced her to join her on her trip up the mountains. Now they were surrounded by woods, the lights of the city gone, replaced with silver moonlight that only cast an eerie veil through the crown of the trees. She rode beside her sister, accompanied by two armed guards._

_“It’s said that if you dig up the ginseng that grows on the side of a mountain in the light of a full moon it’ll improve its qualities,” Ina answered, steering her horse further up. “Mother wanted us to get it.”_

_“Is it because of what happened?” Oya couldn’t help but ask. Since that day things had been different and why shouldn't it? She killed an entire village. They say it was something in the water but in reality, it was her. The power within her had lashed out, she had felt positively euphoric. Even she was afraid of what hid beneath her skin, the monster clawing at her insides, the darkness that wrapped around her soul._

_Ina looked at her sister with strange sympathy. “She’s afraid you will lose control again, that’s why we moved.”_

_“I’m trying. I don’t know what more I can do. I didn’t_ **_want_ ** _to kill them,” Oya pleaded and felt some sort of remorse over the lie. In truth, it had scared her how indifferent she felt towards what happened, not the act itself._

_“But you did,” Ina said with a cold voice that struck her. “We’re here.”_

_They unseated the horses and brushed the ruffles out on their skirts. Ina made the guards remain, her powers latching onto them and controlling their minds. Oya followed her sister out into the clearing, carrying the basket on her arm. She frowned, eyes looking for the plant but found nothing but a house surrounded by a stone fence._

_“Wha-.” A hand wrapped around her from behind, the basket being ripped out away from her with force. Closing her eyes she searched for her powers but found them as subdued as she was, forced passed the stone fence, into an overgrown garden. In the middle was a table, one she was thrown against moments before hitting the ground. Pain broke through her head, the feeling as if it was split open, she screamed._

_“Get her on to the table, we can only hold her powers so long,” a familiar voice shouted. Oya felt hands around her arms, lifting her up and onto the table. Rope was tied around her wrists and ankles but just for good measure, she was held down with bruising force._

_“Let go of me! Help! Ina!” She screamed for her sister, kicking with all she could against the restraints. A power forced her still, the only thing she could move was her eyes, frantically looking around through blurred tears. Her mother stood beside her, face of stone and eyes as cold as ice. Above her holding her wrists were her sister, with a worried frown on her face._

_She wanted to scream her throat raw, to let her powers run through her with vengeance._

_“Cut her hanbok off,” her mother ordered. All Oya could do was watch as her fine silk hanbok was cut through, the fabric torn off her body and leaving her revealed and bare to the world. Her heart stopped the shame of being left so unprotected clutching tightly around it._

_She fought the magic stilling her, fought against its restraints until her body began to tremble. Around her gathered hooded figures with lit candles in their hands. They chanted lowly, the words seemingly making the air hum just like it did before a storm would tear through the skies._

_“W-what?” was all she could get past her lips. With eyes as empty and cold as staring into a skull, her mother stood above her, knife catching the light of the moon._

_“Mother,” Ina said before being stilled by their mothers cold snap of her eyes._

_“We were fools for thinking that we should bring back gods,” her mother said. “We were greedy and foolish for thinking we could control something like that. You are by far my biggest regret and this…” Haesoo’s hands levitated above her daughter's naked body, paled by the moon as if all colour had left the once sunkissed skin. “this will make sure you can never hurt anyone again. This is our way to make things right.”_

_Oya finally broke free of the spell that held her still. She screamed like a wolf in the night, the sound tearing through her throat with merciless claws. The rope burned her skin, dug in and left marks that felt like they’d never go away, and in a way they didn’t._

_Haesoon began to chant, her words slurring into a language Oya didn't understand. Then her sister joined, her eyes never leaving her mother's form, even when her sister begged for her to help, begged to be released._

_The surroundings began to blur into shadows and fine flames, the forms lengthening and twisting to something monstrous. The trees sang a sad song, one of pain and sorrow, maybe it was for her, maybe it sang of this very moment when Oya realised that the ones who should have loved her only saw her as a monster, saw her as something to be kept locked away with betrayal and bindings. Or just maybe it sang the song of all the souls she had taken from the world._

_Warm liquid fell onto her body, drawing dark lines over pale skin, smearing and sticking to her. It turned freezing. Above her were now a dead snake hanging limp in her mother's grip, its blood spilled onto her body. Blood of the serpent, symbol of the goddess Ereshkigal, of her._

_“Mother, please!” She cried but found her pleas were nothing but empty words to her mother. The screaming had left her throat raw, voice almost burned out of her but her tears kept coming, the tickled down the sides of her face. They meant nothing to them._

_Her mother called in someone, one of the guards, that came to stop at her feet. Never had she called so loudly on her powers, never had she screamed into the abyss and found nothing. Never would she have thought that her own flesh and blood would do something like this._

_She wanted to throw up, her stomach turning when his hands trailed up her legs and parted them for him. The pain was almost as bad as the betrayal, the uselessness she felt, the utter and total embarrassment. The pain resonated within her and she felt as if she was truly trapped. Burning chains formed around her, searing themselves into her skin with fine imprints._

_There was nothing but pain, feeling half of her being ripped from her body, feeling bound to something agonizingly fragile. A part of her wished her dead, wished her gone from it all._

_Another part of her burned with reckoning. It cursed them all, saw all those who had anything to do with her binding and rape to die a painful and slow death. She cursed their children and their children's children. She cursed their entire bloodline. But curses from someone who was split in two, whose powers were locked away, were nothing but words._

_In a still moment where time slowed down, she looked into the darkness and found a boy the same age as she, with strange clothe and even stranger features. His hair was in golden tossels around his head, golden hair she had never seen before. Maybe he was a spirit, someone who’d help. Their eyes met, obsidian orbs meeting blue angelite. They were beautiful and they were sad._

_Pain surged through her once more, feeling as if she were about to explode, she screamed and attempted to kick the man off, to tear her wrists from the bindings even if it tore off her skin._

_In the end, she was left entirely powerless. In the end, she was left entirely alone._

_In the end, there was nothing but the seed of hate setting root._

 

_In the end, the boy haunted her._

* * *

 

With a jolt Oya sat up, water that had been still now violently spilling everywhere, the candles put out and knocked over with force, the herbs washed away and symbols cleaned off. She screamed despite the lack of air, body filled with a hollow pain while her mind was scattered to the then, the inbetween and the now.

She was still being suffocated in the soil, still screaming in the inbetween and in total pain in the now.

Michael had thrown the robe and rushed to her side, his arms sinking into the water and wrapped around her to keep her from sinking in once more. He shushed her with soft words, his hands coming around to hold her face up as she jittered in pain, lips quivering violently and eyes trying to focus.

“Oya! _Oya_ !” He said, trying to calm her. “You’re back, you’re here, _I’m here!”_

The words she tried so forcefully to from in her mouth came out as strange stutters with no actual words forming. With her mind shattered like this, everything felt out of place. _She felt out of place._

His eyes were so blue. Angelite. She couldn’t remember where she’d seen them.

It took several moments before her body stopped sizing before she felt in control of it enough to reach out to Michael. Her hands shook when they grabbed onto his jacket that had become soaked. The pain dwindled, her mind falling into place, leaving behind the then, the inbetween to fully be in the now.

Michael lifted her out of the water and cradled her against him. Without any concern to his attire, he held her, softly brushing wet hair out of her face. He felt warm as always. She could hear his heart drum in his chest and slowly she found her way back, her own heart starting to beat with his.

“They’re alive,” she croaked. “They’re alive and they know I’m not there anymore.”

“They won’t be able to find you,” Michael reassured.  There was something there, something pulling at the corners of his sincerity, something that nudged the doubt that had been planted in her. There was a carefulness.

She pushed away from him, hand on his chest. “Did you know? Did you know they were alive?”

“I had my-,” he started after being quiet a moment too long. How easily he lied.

“You knew.”

“Yes,” he admitted. Oya pushed away from him entirely, her skin getting in contact with the wet floor as she pushed over it until they were not touching anymore. There was a callousness to him like there always were. Another mask, another layer, another shield.

Fear turned to anger and anger burned. It was there, to begin with, simmering in the distance and always getting closer and now she was engulfed in it. Rage pure and simple, that left no room for fear or anxieties.

She hated them enough for her to go through him if she had to.

Her powers lashed out and pressed against him until he had scootered over the floor and pressed against the frame of the door. Lights began to flicker, a strange sound filling the room as a gash began to drag over the mirror while it vibrated. The air was windy with magic.

Michael’s eyes flared up with familiar anger, one she had seen before on him. In contrast to her burning rage, his was cold and contained. It made him far more frightening.

“You knew!” She hissed at him, hands balling against the floor so much that her nails cut into the skin of her palm.

Michael simply dried off drops of water before leaning to rest against the frame. Pieces of his hair were wet, the sleeves of his black jacket were wet, his pants were wet. His eyes were cold flames. “Yes, I knew.” He scoffed cynically.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d go after them without a second thought,” he answered with a cool drawl. They both stood, glaring at one another. The robe was supposed to bring her some warmth but none were to be found. It covered her up and yet the feeling of being bare lingered.

“You’re goddamn right!” She cursed at him. “You have no idea what they put me through. You couldn’t possibly understand what they did!”

“I understand betrayal, I’ve had my fair share of it,” he countered. Whether it was anger or attraction they always ended up being slowly pulled towards one another. Something about him was restrained, carefully concealed. He moved in an elegant way that no one else moved in. “Understand that it was-,”

“If you way it was for my own good I swear I’ll tear this house down with you in it,” she threatened. Whether she were able to fight Michael head on and survive would remain a mystery, the same goes for him. “Were you afraid I’d leave you?”

“No,” he said in an almost cruel way, slow and drawling, with his eyes narrowed at her. It shouldn’t have surprised her and it didn’t, but it did strike something.

“I want to watch them burn. I want to watch them suffer for what they did to me and you want to stop me,” she hissed and took a step back as he began to press her further back with his presence. It infuriated her, the way he always closed in on her as if she was prey.

“I don’t want to stop you.” His breath hit her face and trickled over her skin. “I want you to get your vengeance. You can leave whenever you want.”

Words that should seem reassuring felt quite the opposite. The anger that filled her up ran down her cheeks as evidence, how weak it must seem. A goddess trembling with anger and painful tears tainting her cheeks. The pain lingered in her body and the memory of it haunted her. The shame haunted her.

“I didn’t tell you because you’d act rash. You’d let the anger consume you-,”

“ _And you wouldn’t let it consume you!”_ She yelled in frustration. Behind her spiderwebs formed as the mirror continued to vibrate, the lights flickering. The rage burned in her blood, made every breath she took feel strained and painful. It felt as if she’d lose control, even if she tried to remain as collected as Michael, the energy whirled around them.

“I’ve learned to think before I act, to take in every possibility and make plans for every outcome so that whatever that happens _I’m the one in control_.” He didn’t touch her but his hand followed the line of her cheekbone. “When you were in full control I’d tell you. So that you could think clearly.”

“What do you want from me, Michael?”

“I’ve told you. I want you to reach full potential,” he said with an ease unlike any other. If he lied she wouldn’t know and if he spoke the truth… It was hard to figure out if it were all part of a bigger game, of something she hadn’t yet realised or if it were something sincere. At times he was exactly what he showed her and at other time a cypher she couldn’t figure out. It was infuriating.

“And I want revenge.”

“Then take it but be clever,” he said. With carefulness, he touched her cheek and dried off her tears. The fire that burned towards him burned out leaving dust and ashes behind, in the form of a hollow feeling. Pain lingered, however. The memoried burned into her mind.

“For the pain, they have caused you I will make sure their stay in hell will be worse than they ever thought possible.”

Oya placed her hand over his and looked into his eyes with undoubtful determination. “In this, I don’t need your help. However, I ask that you stay by my side as I take my revenge.”

“Seeing you take revenge would be my biggest pleasure.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please leave a comment with what you think or if there's something that doesn't look right.  
> You can also always message me on Tumblr @zeciex


	7. Garden of Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrounded by her garden Oya contemplates what happened to her and what exactly makes Michaels hold over her so firm she isn't out tearing into her enemies at that very moment.  
> So a ritual is preformed, a bloody ritual with black wings of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Aftermath of rape. Blood.

Lilac blossoms surrounded by green. The air was warm, the sun warming up the greenhouse with its rays of light and bringing life to the plants within. It was strange to walk through the greenhouse for every step there’d be a new scent, the soft smell of lavender, the subtlety of the roses or fresh mint. Colours danced among the green, a rainbow of them.

Planet in the middle of it all, hidden by green, was Oya. The herb she was once picking at long forgotten in the rapid stream of her thoughts. For hours she’d been sitting on the ground, leaves fallen around her, in her hand scissors and a handful of mint leaves.

The memory of her mother and sister playing in her mind over and over again like a bad movie. It flickered back and forth from the past to the now. The cheeks that were once stained with tears had run dry.

She remembered waking up that morning after, golden rays fighting against the green that veiled the sky above. How cold she was, still naked and bare for nature to bite at her. Red covered her skin, breaking into pieces as she moved with rigid movements, body sore and bruised.

* * *

 

_Oya fell to the ground with a thud, legs not abiding to her commands. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a fox cry out, the strange sound jolting through her body making her bury her face in the fallen leaves._

_The shaking wouldn't subside and she’d come to know it wouldn’t for days, neither would the pain._

_She crawled through the dirt, pressing herself forward towards the gate, kicking in an attempt to be quicker. Branches and stones cut at her skin but she didn’t feel it, she didn’t feel the pain of it when she was lost to another kind of pain. As if her lungs were on fire she drew in ragged breaths._

_The gate neared, she reached towards the stones, so close. Another push forward was all it took. At first, there were nothing, then it felt as if something closed around her throat cutting off the air she needed, then her skin began to burn, turning red and blisters forming. She screamed and drawled back, clutching her hand to her chest and rolled to lie on her back._

_The sky seemed to only extend in a circle above her, framed by marvellous green. Tears ran from her eyes, lips parting in silent terror._

_It was first when the sky began to turn a deep blue, that she finally fought her way up. With shaking legs barely able to hold her up, the pain shooting through her body with each step, she managed to climb onto the porch. It was all she had, she couldn’t stand again so she crawled inside._

_There was firewood by the fireplace, stocked up in a high pile that filled the wall. The essentials for the kitchen stood neatly piled on a table, with baskets of food beneath. In the middle of the small cottage where two bundles of wrapped fabric, one that contained common clothe and another contains her bed._

_She would find a well on the property if she walked out but she remained on the dusty floor, crying against the fabric until her eyes ran dry. Without the tears, there were only emptiness and pain. And for years she’d find nothing else but that. For a while, the pain would push forward her survival, out of pure fucking spite. But the first days she’d be broken._

_The blood and dirt were washed off the day after with water so cold it left her teeth clacking. It was then she saw the tattoos around her neck and the ones beneath the dirt, the bruises and blood around her wrists and ankles. That was when she knew just what kind of spell had been cast._

_The binding was intricate, it forced her to stay on this plot of land for eternity all the while locking away her powers deep inside. This was her prison cell, her hell._

_Her family had betrayed her, taken her soul and kept her powers captive._

_Alone. She was alone._

_After a few years, she’d think of killing herself but the anger and spite in her wouldn’t let her. No, she’d live and live long, she’d build herself up again._

_If she were like weed to them, she’d act like it and never be beaten down, she’d always return, some day. The thought of surviving just for the spite of it kept her going, the anger of it._

And one day, they’d die and enter _her_ **** _domain._

_By the gods, they’d know what her anger would taste like._

* * *

 

Frightened by his sudden appearance Oya was flung back into reality with a surprised gasp. Among the green, with a halo of golden rays around him, Michael stood in front of her. It was not that he had appeared out of thin air, though he were very much capable of that, it was that she had not noticed he had come in or that he had walked around the greenhouse looking for her.

She rose from the ground and tread carefully between the plants to reach the path. Michael followed her to the garden table with watchful eyes.

“You’ve been quiet,” he commented. Oya shrugged and dropped the mint leaves in a container for later use. She was strangely put of out place ever since that day.

“There’s been a lot on my mind,” she answered him and began to shovel soil into a pot in a restless manner. Michaels' hand ghosted over her shoulder, the touch familiar but oddly uncomfortable in the moment. She shifted beneath his touch away from him.

“Why don’t you share what’s on your mind?”

The scissor dug into the scrapped and battered wood with ease. “You don’t share what’s on your mind so why should I?” With a heavy sigh, she let go of the scissor and flattened her hands on the table. With closed eyes, she took a second for herself. There was an annoyance within her, a sort of anger, that she couldn’t get rid of. It belonged to something in the distance, something she did not know of yet.

“I don’t want to talk, Michael. I want to act and you won’t let me.”

“I told you, I’m not holding you back, you can leave whenever you want,” he said, voice cold and hard. She glared up at him.

“But you are,” she sighed. “You know you are and I know you are. I’m in debt to you. You are the only reason I’m not out there dancing on their graves.”

Oya pushed forward a potted rose, the single stalk rising up and swaying under the weight of the head, red and blossomed.

“This is yours. Destruction isn’t your only power.” With that she walked away, leaving Michael staring at the empty space she had once filled, staring at the rose that thrived. If she had looked back she’d have seen the unreadable expression upon his face. Maybe she’d have noticed the glimpse of realisation. But she didn’t, she walked out.

* * *

 

Black wings stretched out over the skin on her back, black feathers with wind beneath, the birds in mid-flight, crowing to the skies. The wind was soft, playing with her hair, whispering of untold stories and warmed by the sun. Light caught the reflective surface of the blade she held in her hand.

This would hurt more than releasing the snake.

She twisted to look over her shoulder, neck strained in an awkward position as she lifted the knife to cut at the skin along her back. The tip had barely punctured the skin before Michael showed up, taking the knife from her hand before letting the other run over it with a careful touch.

They didn’t speak, instead, there was a mutual silence both parties agreed on.

Michael kissed her neck and let the knife run through her flesh, cutting it open. She hissed between clenched teeth.

Warm blood ran down over the tattoos and kept running. Michael cut along the edge of her back until he reached beneath the wings. He let the knife drag over her skin without biting and took a step back.

At first, there was nothing but the wound and blood. Then a small movement beneath the skin, dragging another pained hiss from Oya. She felt the skin being torn from her bones as the crows fought their way out amidst all the blood and feathers. Michael watched as the first feathers appeared, bloody and sticky, then a beak that crowed at the world. The bird forced its way out and fell to the ground in a black mess of twisted wings. Just as the first bird came into the world so did the other, this one basking it’s wings violently, claws digging into her body attempting to spare it from falling and still, it fell down to the other, screeching on the way.

She felt air where there shouldn't be. Blood-chilling her, bleeding into her skirt.

Oya turned to the birds on the ground, crouching down to watch them regain control of their body.

Michael came to her level, fascinated by the birds and by the woman in front of him. He watched as she let her finger run over their black feathers, blooding her fingers. The birds answered to her, looking with their big black eyes, basking their wings and waiting for a command.

“Find them and watch them,” she told them. They answered her with a hiss before setting off. They were beautiful creatures.

Michael came up behind her and ran his hand over the skin that had been torn from its place. Oya hissed and cursed, nails digging into her palms. She tried to move from him but he kept his hand on her shoulder. When her skin was finally in place, she felt herself begin to heal again. Within a few hours, the wounds would be gone as if they never happened, to begin with, her skin would be smooth as silk and with only a shadow of an imprint of her birds would remain.

“Do you know where they are?” She asked. The birds were at a distance now, details blurred out into nothing.

“Venice,” he answered from behind her.

“Venice,” she repeated with bitterness. She’d sink that city to the bottom of the ocean like fucking Atlantis or Alexandria.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop me a comment!


	8. The Inbetween Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invisible tethers brings forth a vision that creates a rift between Oya and Michael.  
> But there's still an ache for him that needs satisfying, the only part of her she's willing to give into.

For days she’d listened to a voice, a mere gust of wind with no words, begging her forward, pulling at invisible tethers tied around her body. The dark waters of the lake called, black as ink, a void in the landscape. It beckoned her forward finding her finally at the water, it's cold bite nibbling at her toes.

She wasn't sure how she got there, a moment ago the sun had been high on the sky and she was inside the warm walls of Michaels home, with him ghosting his lips over her skin and whispering ‘You’ve been standing here for days looking out at the lake’. She couldn’t recall what she answered.

There were cuts all over her legs, scratches from branches and stones looking like claw marks. Like the marks, the skeletons had made.

It wasn’t before she was waist deep that she heard Michael call out her name from the shore and she was jolted back into reality. The water was cold, it brought paleness to her skin and formed goosebumps over it.

“Stay there, Michael! There’s something I need to see,” she called back.

Michael ran his hands through his hair and scoffed with annoyance before stepping out into the water ruining his fine leather shoes. “Come back, Oya! You’re going to get hypothermia or fucking drown.”

Instead of listening to him, she continued until her feet didn’t touch the bottom until her chiffon dress lusciously moved around her like a veil caught in the wind. The stream pulled at her, dragged her beneath the surface with a cold hand. Invisible strings wrapped around her ankles. Underneath the surface she saw herself reflected, her hair floated around her, skin pale as the moonlight, eyes endless voids. She sank, hands reaching towards the sky. Darkness surrounded her, she felt the water press in on her, guiding bubbles out of her lungs that rushed to the surface. Her eyes closed and body began to fight against the tethers that dragged her down.

She burst through the surface in the great inbetween, hands splashing through water and gripping the invisible floor. Suddenly she wasn’t swimming in the water but lying on the watered floor, with only inches of water between the bottom and the surface. For the first time, she was completely soaked through, hair clinging to her skin, water dripping off of her.

Oya pushed to stand, her lungs filling with air, painting violently while her body shook. It was cold here, freezing. Her breath formed evaporating clouds in front of her face. Something whispered at her. Through her body, she felt a hollow coldness run, fear coursing through her blood.

She ran, the water splashing up at each step until she felt stones beneath her feet, water suddenly thicker and sticky. Looking down she found that the stones were not stones at all but bones and the water were blood. Thousands of bones, millions of them as far as the eye could see were lying all around her. Mountains of them. She turned, her heart beating rapidly in her chest, constraining her breathing and drying out her mouth. So many skulls with empty hollow eyes looked upon her, their eyes sad and pained. The bones groaned and cracked beneath her heels as she stumbled through them, eyes violently scanning over the surroundings.

The sky was grey as ash and closer to her than she had ever experienced, she could almost touch the clouds. The air vibrated with pain, screams piercing through her, cries filling the air. The pain crawled under her skin, it felt so massive, so all-consuming it made her head spin.

Never had she experienced the world in such complete and agonizing pain, so filled with sadness. Never had she ever felt so alone. There was nothing but death. Death and destruction.

Her eyes snapped to a figure on top of a mountain of bones. He turned slowly, pushing his hood down to reveal long golden locks and piercing blue eyes that could look straight into a person's soul. Even if he looked older with longer hair and a hint of red eyeshadow at the inner corners of his eyes she could recognize him anywhere. Michael looked down upon her with indifference.

It pained her. She began to stumble towards him, feeling her feet sink in between the bones, slip in the blood. It felt like a nightmare, watching him watching her with indifference. She felt small and insignificant. The fear of abandonment bittering her tongue and forcing tears to her eyes.

Why where she shown this? What was the meaning?

“Michael!” She screamed at him, reaching for him and wanting nothing more than for him to reach for her. But he didn’t, he instead stepped back and turned. “Michael! Don’t! Don’t leave me, Michael. Please!”

Boney hands wrapped around her ankles causing her to fall. Bones snapped under her weight, ashes stinging her eyes, bones cutting at her skin.  The world pressed in on her, the overflowing pain that shouted out from every bone, every open mouth in empty cries. Her body was dragged back, down into the mass of blood and bones, her fingers gripped at nothing in an attempt to keep above ground, to not be dragged into the darkness that felt like death. She cried for Michael, cried for him not to leave her behind and become another one of the many skeletons, just another body in the mass grave that was the world.

Her fight was futile, she had seen what it had meant for her to see. Pieces of the future entwined with pieces of her worst nightmare, one she had just realised. The future was death and she wasn’t sure if that meant her own. All the wanted was to be by Michaels side and he had left her so easily.

“M-Michael!” She screamed with what energy she had left, the weight of the bones pressing in on her with just her head above ground hands reaching for the sky as if someone would ascend down to rescue her. Blood began to fill her eyes and with one last breath, she was gone.

There was an empty calm to the darkness. Nothing, no pain, no fear, no nothing.

* * *

From the nothingness, there sprung a fire, that burned through her lungs until the water was cast out of her mouth. Something warm was lying on her chest, pressing the water out of her lungs. For a moment she laid there underneath the stars just staring up until she coughed up another breath of water. It burned and hurt, tears mixing with lake water upon her skin.

Her body began to shake as she realised she was back in the real world, lying at the lakeside, with Michael breathing heavily above her, his hair now in wet lumps, a complete mess, water dripping from his nose and onto her skin. He looked like a drowned cat.

“What happened?” She croaked, breathing fresh air. Michael looked at her with fury and who could blame him.

“I brought you back,” he panted, trying to dry the water off his face with his wet sleeve. “What the fuck was that?” When she sat up Michael removed his hand from her chest and instead removed the hair from her face with affection. His anger was mixed with relief and relief turned to a chuckle when her teeth began to clatter from the cold.

“Let’s get back,” he said with a softer tone, lifting her up. She rested her head against his shoulder, pressing in on his warmth. God she wished he could just consume her and warm her up that way.

“You l-look absolutely terrible. I-I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you look terrible,” she mumbled against his chest. There were chaos within her mind, millions of thoughts intertwined into a big mess with no end and no beginning. The vision daunted at the edge of her mind, slowly revealing itself, cutting through the cluttering chaos with a sharp clarity.

“And who’s to blame for that?” He uttered gently.

The trees turned into walls, cold wind into a warm one, darkness into light as Michael stepped through time and space and into her bathroom. He put her down inside the shower with a gentleness only expressed towards her. The stream turned hot immediately when he turned on the shower, taking the head and rinsing off the lake water and dirt from Oya’s body.

“What did you see?” He asked and lead the stream wash over her shoulder and neck to clean it off dirt. Oya frowned, brows knitting together when she remembered. He was going to end the world, burn it down into cinder and ashes. _He was going to use her and then let her burn in the fires, leave her behind to die._ A blistering anger boiled within her chest.

“Nothing,” she dismissed and moved away from his touch. Michael noticed the change and stopped, suddenly confused by her distance and coldness in her tone.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing to concern you with,” she voiced without sparing him a glance. Michael grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at him, the anger evident in both his eyes and voice.

“I say it’s something to concern myself with. What did you see, Oya.” He didn’t ask anymore he demanded. Nails dragged over skin when she forced his hands off of her.

“It’s none of your fucking business! You don’t tell me everything so why should I? What are you gonna do, huh? Are you going to force it out of me?” She spat at him. The muscles moved beneath his skin as he clenched his jaw, the grip around the showerhead becoming forceful and turning his knuckles white. If her anger boiled his blazed. “What is it you’re so worried I’ll see?”

Michael refused to answer. The water rose up when he let go of the showerhead before he walked out, not saying a single thing. His hands were clenched into balls at his side. Instead of yelling, instead of showing a display of anger and how far his powers really reached he choose to walk away, leaving a bewilted Oya staring after him. In truth, she’d have thought he’d mirror her anger and explode. Instead, he controlled it and left her with a hollow feeling inside.

Why’d he leave like that? If he wanted her to tell the truth he could easily have made her and yet he didn't.

She didn’t understand him.

This boy would bring the end of the world, he’d kill billions of people and yet he had done nothing to harm her, ever. It should scare her, the apocalypse, she should fight against it and feel for the people who’d all perish but she didn't. The world had never done anything for her, she would not weep at its end. What scared her was her abandonment, that Michael would leave her to die when the time came.

He was the antichrist and what would he need a goddess for when he had the world by its throat.

With quivering lips, Oya picked up the showerhead letting the water warm her.

* * *

They avoided each other like the plague. Two days went by in the blink of an eye. Michael had become a ghost that haunted her relentlessly. She heard his steps, felt his presence but never saw him. And she was angry for that, angry that _he_ was angry with her when he was the one that never truly let her in. As much as he spoke of the bond between them he never revealed more of himself, of his plans, of the future and instead, he had focused on her, made her reveal her soul to him, made her bound not only by the bond between them but also by owing him for releasing her.

Two days turned into four.

Each night brought her frustrations when her dreams left her aching for him, for his touch, his mouth, his being. Any relief she tried to give herself never satisfied the growing need. Dreamful nights turned into sleepless ones.

One night the ache was too much and though she was still angry with him, the need drow her to his door in the middle of the night. She pushed open the glass and stepped inside, finding Michael tugged under the covers. For a moment she considered leaving, no harm would have been done if he never knew she was there. That moment disappeared when he sat up and looked directly at her, hair still tousled from sleep. The need set root, it burned out any remainder of sanity that told her that her anger was valid and she should turn around.

Softly she pushed the collar of the robe over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, revealing her naked body for his eyes and his eyes only. With confidence she walked to him, first caressing his cheek before pushing away the covers. More than anything else he was curious as to what exactly she was doing. He didn’t oppose when she straddled his hips and leaned in to trail kissed over his neck, carefully grinding into him. Her teeth grazed over his sensitive skin drawing a deep and rumbling moan from his throat, one that she felt tremble through her lips. She sank her teeth into his shoulder hard enough to bruise, it earned another moan, hips shifting up into her.   
With agonizingly slow kisses and maddening nibbles, she made her way down his body, nails raking red lines over his pale skin. He marked her, he had always been the one to do so and the only thing she left on him had always been red nail marks but now, now she let her kisses become blooming flowers with purple pedals. She bit at the skin of his hip, fingers pulling at the band of his boxers until his erection sprung free, hard and needy.

Oya gazed up at him, desire burning in her eyes. Michael was looking at her the exact same way, the blue eyes darkening when she wrapped her hand around his cock. Her tongue darted out and traced over the head, Michael mewling at the feeling, his head falling back against the pillow and hips lifting off the bed with need. Oya took her time teasing him, letting her hot breath tickle against his skin, grip loosening, tongue circling the head. He growled, fingers curling in the bedding. She smirked at him, empowered by his need for her touch and yet not begging for it.

She savoured the moment before wrapping her mouth around him. Michaels' eyes fluttered at the feeling, a loud moan tearing through his throat. Her mouth was hot and soft. She hollowed out her cheeks and sucked until his body was shaking. Slowly she sank further and further down, lightly pressured by the hands that were now curled in her hair, fingers massaging her scalp. Around him she swallowed, eyes watering at the feeling of him in her throat and still she continued. The ache between her legs grew, she wanted to grind against the mattress just for some sort of relief. The hand not wrapped around his cock found its way between her legs, trailing circles over her clit, the feeling dragging a moan from her. It vibrated through him, his hips snapping up with a feverish need.

Oya continued through tears until she was forcibly removed by Michael, his one hand coming to wrap itself around the base of his cock and effectively stopping himself from coming right then and there. With a confused expression on her face, she looked at him. Drying of her saliva with her hand.

Michael pulled her to him, pressing a kiss upon her lips. The kiss was hot and hard, almost with bruising intent and yet with tenderness enough to let them pant against each other's lips, silent moans swallowed and teeth grazing the other's tongue. With force Oya pushed Michael back until he laid down, straddling his hips once more. His erection pulsed with need, jittering against the skin of his lower stomach. Oya teased him by slowly rolling her hips against his, her folds lubricated him, readying for further interaction. Her eyes rolled in her head, feeling him brush against her, feeling him underneath and when he moaned she moaned with him.

In this madness, she wasn’t only driving him crazy but also herself.

“Oya.” By the simple mention of her name, she lined him up with her and slowly sank onto him, clenching her walls around him that dragged an animalistic growl from his lips. The sound was absolutely the most erotic thing, it burned through her body, coiled within her with immediate force. The feeling of him inside of her made her eyes flutter and toes curl.

Michaels' hands glided up her thighs, holding onto her while she controlled the speed, the motion, she controlled _him._

Oya opened her mouth in a silent moan, rolling her hips against his, sliding up and down on his shaft that felt so incredibly fulfilling, it made her eyes water. The pace was slow at first, letting her get used to his size, sinking down onto him until he was buried at the shaft.

With a cruel smirk, she ceased to move, instead clenching around him. She kept like that even when his hips tried to jerk up into her, even when he looked up at her with burning desire, brows knitted in pleasure and a hint of pain.  She wanted to let him know she was the one who decides what happens, that this time he was a mere tool since her anger towards him hadn’t changed. It was a punishment and when he let a little whine escape she was nothing less than satisfied.

When she began to move again the pleasure washed over her with massive waves, breath caught in her chest. The pace became faster, she finally allowed him to thrust up into, the feeling making her heart flutter and cunt grow wetter.

To steady herself, she grabbed the headboard, fingers digging into the wood. Her hair hung over her shoulders, tickling against his chest while their eyes were locked on one another. She bit her lip trying to stifle a moan when he hit just the right spot that electrified every cell in her body. The metallic taste lingered in her mouth as a reminder of how hard she’d bitten herself. A drop of blood fell from her lip and onto his, licked away by that sinful tongue of his, the one who so skilfully turned truths into weapons and lies into truths.

His nails scrapped over her thighs making her eyes flutter at the pain, heart beating within her chest and blood pumping uncontrollably through her veins. He reached up, wanting nothing more than to taste the metal on her tongue but she firmly planted a hand on his chest, forcing him backwards. Instead, she also leaned back, taking his hands and leading them to her breasts. No words were needed, as she continued to chase after pleasure, riding him with an animalistic need, he massaged her breasts, taking her nipples between his fingers and rolling the bud with slight hardness, a delicious pain.

Michael sat up with a suddenness, mouth taking her nipple in, softly biting at the sensitive skin as if it were the apple of Eden. Oya moaned loudly not able to keep it in, breath caught in her lungs. Her hands ran through his hair, taking hold and forcing his head back to place a needy kiss on his mouth, taking his tongue in. He thrust into her and matched her moan with his own, only to be pushed down against the mattress once more.

She was so close that her legs were trembling, beads of sweat running down her back, hair sticking to her body. By the look of chased bliss on his face, she’d argue that he was close as well, his legs almost trembling as much as her own. The ache that had built up over the days apart ripped through their bodies, it burned hot and long, shot with electrifying bursts up through their bodies as they came in total and utter ecstasy.

For a moment everything turned white with pleasure, there was only the sensation of undeniable sweetness. Michael thrusted shallowy up into her a few more times, prolonging his own pleasure. Oya hummed satisfied, feeling his seed fill her. If it weren't for her knowledge in herbs and medicine she’d have become pregnant with his child long ago by how deep his seed seemed to reach, how completely filled she felt. She remained, hands running over his skin just to feel him, feel the heat radiating off of him and bask in the glory of coming.

It took a moment until she had gathered and composed herself enough to rise from him, feeling their juices drip out of her and run down her legs when she finally stood.

He didn’t argue for her to stay, actually, he didn’t say anything and she didn’t care to listen. Instead, she walked to her robe and picked it up, wrapping it around herself on the way to the door. There were no words to be spoken, their fight wasn’t over, this had been a mere truce to satisfy their carnal needs.

If he had asked she would have stayed but he didn’t.

Oya turned halfway through the door. “Goodnight, Michael.”


	9. When the devil speaks so sweetly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not like you need me for anything so-,”
> 
> “Is that what you think?” A storm was brewing in his eyes. “You think I don’t need you? Is that why you’re leaving?”

She heard footsteps going up the stairs and quickly put away the many folders she had looked through in Michaels room, turning around and passed through space into her own room. Her heart drummed in her chest, blood rushing beneath her skin and colouring it red.

She had taken the opportunity to look through some of Michaels files when he wasn’t there. It was hard to piece together all the information but she had a pretty good guess how the fuck he wanted to create the end times. Around the globe, there were outposts, bunkers for the rich and powerful to hide in when time came to drop the atomic bombs. It wasn’t just getting rid of humans but wiping the earth clean, destroying every single thing ‘god’ created so that...Was it Michael that wanted to create a new world, a new god or was it the devil as you know him. Either way, there would be nothing left. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t afraid of it. Nuclear bombs could bring the total end of times, creating a thick layer of dust that’d throw the world into a new ice age and those you don’t just get out of. But Michael was clever, he must have weighed in the possibilities.

It bothered her, that he didn’t share his plans with her and it only made her fear of abandonment even more intense. Her survival instinct kicked in, she could feel it vibrate through her body. There had been an outpost in Korea, the one managing that was a man named Jeon Tak. If she went back to Korea now, she could manipulate him to create a place for her, she’d leave Michael and make sure she’d survive. If they meet again, well then she’d smack the devil out of him. For wanting to kill her.

“It doesn’t fucking make sense,” she groaned loudly to herself, falling to the bed and rubbing her face with her hands. He needed her for something, why else would he release her? If she were nothing to him he’d have left her imprisoned when the bombs dropped.

He was using her for something and she’d have to give it to him. He owned her in that way and it made her blood boil. Being owned, owing _him_ , left a bitter taste on her tongue. Not once had he given her any indication of what he wanted from her, the only thing was ‘to reach her potential’. What did that even mean? She sat up and went to the closet, throwing the bag she had brought with her up on the desk, the leather smacking against the glass. Dresses went flying through the room and into the bag, shoes following and then jewelry. It wasn’t like Michael was going to use it anyway, he wouldn’t fit any of it.

When she decided that she had enough clothe she dragged the bag to her room, throwing it on the floor, then went and picked some of her magical things into it, stones, a chest with bones, potions, seeds and her books. It wasn’t until the bag was basically overflowing with content before her erratic movements ceased and she blew hair out of her face with a huff.

Was she really going to leave him? With restlessness, she gnawed at her lip. Yes. If he needed her for something he could easily find her. She had unfinished business left to do and if he didn’t ensure her survival she sure as fuck were going to ensure it herself.

They had not spoken for days, the only time she saw him were when she came to him in the night. He had made no attempt to see her and if this was what he wanted, then she might as well just be outhere and do her thing.

In truth, it pained her that he refused to come. It made her feel insignificant, just like in the vision. If she were just a tool to him, then so be it, but she couldn’t stop the hope that had set root deep within her chest, the little voice that said that maybe, just maybe she was different, that she was someone _he_ needed and not just for sex, not just for her powers.

It was a naive thought and it was dangerous.

Oya jumped startled by Michaels sudden appearance when he opened the door and stepped in. His eyes glided over the room, onto her over packed bag and landed on her mildly distressed appearance that were quickly composed into a mask of indifference.

“You’re leaving,” he drawled, closing the door behind him and leaned against it, tilting his head to observe her. However, she reacted, every little movement were under a magnifying glass. Whatever she did now would affect the future or so it felt like.

“Yes,” she answered him and walked to sit at the foot of the bed. “You said I could leave whenever I want. I’ve got control of my powers and I have things left to do.”

Whatever he thought were hidden behind an unreadable mask, calculating every move, every outcome, like it always was. She didn’t actually want to leave but it was something she’d never admit to, not this time. It had been her to give in every time but this time she refused. He made her feel complete and at the same time, he could so such coldness towards her. She never knew where they were and it was driving her crazy.

“It’s not like you need me for anything so-,”

“Is that what you think?” A storm was brewing in his eyes. “You think I don’t need you? Is that why you’re leaving?”

“I’m leaving,” she said and restlessly stood, face in a sneer because he didn’t get it. “Because nothing is holding me here. We’ve fucked, sure, it was _great_ but just fucking isn’t a reason to stay. You can call me back whenever, I owe you after all, but I want to take my revenge and then figure out what is next.”

“Just fucking.” Michael scoffed at her, a sinister smile on his lips. Before she could react his hands grasped her head, his face so close to her own. “No,” he continued this time softer, strangely childish. There were a need in his eyes she hadn’t seen before, a fragileness.

“What do you want from me, Michael? Am I just a tool?” His eyes shifted back and forth trying to find the words to answer her question.

“You’re not just a tool,” he said, composing himself and stepping back, letting his hands fall from her face and to his sides. “You feel the bond between us too, it’s not something you can get away from, it will always be there.”

“I don’t understand, Michael.” Her brows were knitted together. “Do you want to know what I saw? I saw the world turned into ash and bones, rivers and oceans red with blood and the sky forever dark.” A tear pushed over the edge of her eye, running down her cheek as her lip quivered. Michael’s eyes followed it, read the expression of fear upon her face. “And you,” she continued, snapping his eyes back to hers. “Were standing on a mountain of bones, untouched by the destruction.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” For the moment he had fallen back into the role he knew so well, his question was almost taunting if it weren't for the glimmer of pain that shot through his eyes. _He didn’t want her to be afraid of him._

“No,” she breathed. “What I am afraid of is being left behind, to be just another one of those bones, to be dust in the wind. I called out to you but you left me behind. _That_ is what I am afraid of.”

In that moment his defences fell, realising that if he didn’t want to lose her, he had to speak the truth. He had to shed his composure as the antichrist and reveal what was hidden beneath. She watched him, how his shoulders sank and face losing its layers of masks. Once more he took her face between his hands, this time with a gentle touch. “I would never leave you behind. I need you, I want you by my side in this and beyond the end of the world. _I need you, Oya._ ”

_They warn you the devil is a liar, but how can you not believe him when his words taste so sweet and lips even sweeter._

Their kiss was desperate, not with the need of desire but with the need to feel the other, to let them taste their soul on their lips. Maybe she should have been strong, taken her bags and left but that didn’t seem like a possible choice. He had finally broken down the barrier, _he_ was the one to give in and reveal himself and she couldn’t let it go. She couldn’t let him go.

“You’ve always been there, just a glimpse of you, throughout my entire life. I knew I’d find you and when I did… I was afraid to lose you, afraid to let you in because everyone I’ve cared for has left me,” his voice quivered. The man before her had turned to a boy, with a heart shattered in so many pieces it was unclear if he would be able to put it back together again. And in her were the same child, a girl with a shattered heart broken by betrayal. This had fate written all over it and if it were with anything else she’d turn away from it, fate was never kind. But she couldn’t turn away.

She kissed him as a response, bringing his lips to hers with small pecks, soft and silky as rosepeadles. Michael rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed to savour the moment and then let out a breath that tickled over her skin and brought forth a tingling sensation under her skin. Gently she brushed her hands over his shoulders, feeling them fall beneath her touch, finding ease in the contact.

Michaels fingers caressed her hips with a tenderness she had only seen glimpses off. It stayed with him as he pressed his lips to hers once more, hands sliding to the bow around her waist, pulling the strings and opening the robe. His skin touched hers, just a graze but enough to bring forth a wave of goosebumps that spread across her skin like wildfire. Oya leaned into him and caught his lips with her own, standing on her toes to reach his height like she always did.

There was something there that wasn’t before, a word neither them would use let alone speak, a word that was the greatest cause of destruction and still it was there in every touch, every graze of skin, kept on their lips a breath away from being spoken into existence.

Michael guided her backwards until she stood against the foot of the bed. With a tender touch, he pushed her against the mattress and she let him for this was his confession not hers.

“Take your jacket off,” she breathed when he finally released her lips only to peck kisses over her jaw. Blond hair tickled at her skin. A hum rumbled in his chest, vibrating beneath her fingers. In this he obliged, discarding of the garment with an almost amusing ruthlessness towards the fashionable piece.

Oya laid against the bed, watching Michael throw the velvet jacket to the floor and then pulling at the piece around his neck. Her hair was spread over the white silk sheets, obsidian against ivory and her robe a blue aura around her naked body that was displayed only for him to see. Black eyes followed each of his movements, elegant and controlled like a cat but also flowing freely as water, when her eyes trailed over the exposed skin of his neck she noticed the remaining traces of green and yellow, the withering blossoms of her kisses from nights ago. The memory of his skin on hers, her teeth sinking into smooth flesh, the feeling of him inside of her, were enough to make the ache more prominent. She sat up and hooked a finger into Michael's belt only to be stopped by having her wrists pinned above her, a confused look on her face.

“Don’t,” he spoke, barely a whisper. The question she had died on her tongue when she felt him lean into her, pressing his body against hers as he bit at the delicate skin of her throat. A moan split her lips open, his hands sliding down her arms, down to her side. Michael’s lips sears her, burns while forging a path into her soul, the feeling forever embarked on her. “You smell like your garden,” he mumbled against her, kissing down to her collarbone and took a deep breath. “There’s no defining scent,” he placed a kiss under her collarbone. “Lavender,” he moved between the valley of her breasts, then looked up at her breathless face. “Sandalwood.”

Michael closed his mouth around her nipple and smirked when Oya arched her back off the bed with a moan. His skin was always warm but his mouth, his mouth was a furnace. A soft line formed between her brow, eyes closed as she savoured the feeling of his tongue playing with her. Curses left her mouth, words unfamiliar to him but their meaning not at all lost. Within her chest drummed her heart, rapid like a hummingbird, the anticipation making it flutter with need.

His mouth traveled below her chest, sloppy and wet kisses tranced over her ribs, his fingers tickling her side making her jitter. “Jasmine.” The luxurious silk sheets curled in her grip, nails digging in to the fabric.

Ruthless, that was his pace, excruciatingly slow. The ache carved through her, hollowed out her bones and he was the only thing to relieve her of that agony. He wanted to savour her, to make her wither at his touch, mewl at the feeling of his breath on her skin. He wanted to devour her. He wanted to worship her. A smirk formed when she erupted in moans the nearer he got to the source of her ache, her walls clenching around nothing and the need to move jittering through her body. “Cherry blossoms.” A groan left her when he bit into her hip, skin caught between his teeth.

“Michael,” She moaned, hips sifting. It was almost cruel the way he paid no mind tp her begging. Instead his hands slid down her thighs, partening them and letting the cool air lick at her heated core, soaked completely. He had seen her before, he knew the curves of her body like the back of his hand and yet he studied her with unwavering interest. She mewled at the feeling, biting into her bottom lip and letting her head roll. Nervous to be seen like this, her heart fluttered, thighs trying to come together once more only to be held in place by an iron grip. Michael let the tip on his nose trail over the soft patch of her inner thigh moments before biting into it. Oya moaned, hips ached from the mattress.

“Lotus,” he drawled and kissed the blooming bruise on her flesh. Michael finally placed his mouth were she wanted it the most making her roll her eyes in pleasure, biting into her finger to stifle a moan that somehow still managed to escape. His tongue could drive her mad, that was the conclusion she derived from the way he made lightening shoot through her body, the coil within her almost snapping right then and there. He licked between her folds, spreading her open and dived into her as if it was the last thing he’d ever do. It wasn’t desperate, it wasn’t just for the pleasure of it, he worshiped her with his tongue, sucking and licking just the right way. It brought tears to her eyes, her heart swelling at the sight of him buried between her legs. She had imagined it before but never captured how absolutely erotic it was seeing his eyes burn with a blue flame, golden locks a halo around his had, tickling at her thighs.

And she could never imagine how it would make her feel. She felt the burning lust in him, their passion that had clashed before in fast and hard fucks but this were a passion that derived from something else.

Under him, she twisted, feeling the coil snap all too quickly, her walls clenching around nothing. Fireworks lighted up behind her eyelids, breath caught in her throat and mangled a cry that wanted to escape. Michael continued circling her clit with his tongue, even after she had come down and continued through her breathless and broken words of mercy, her clit swollen and overstimulated.

He continued his worship, inserting a finger and finding her hips jolting up. At first, it was uncomfortable, the overstimulation almost painful but it quickly turned into messy moans and broken cries, hips beckoning him to continue. Michael looked at her with the stars in his eyes and never had she been looked at like that before. It broke her heart to think he thought himself incapable of being loved. It was there, hidden deep within his soul.

Curses left her lips once more when he curled his finger to hit the right spot. It was agonizing, his pace quick enough to bring pleas upon her lips and slow enough to let them die there.

He removed his mouth from her and she cried out a protest. “Tell me what you want.”

“Y-you,” she croaked, voice wavering as her breaths got stuck in her lungs. She could see just how wet she was by the mess on his face, nose, cheeks and jaw glinsening with her juices. It looked so sinful on him with that angel face of his.

“Be specific,” he commanded, lying his head against her thigh and stilled the finger curled inside of her. How could he possibly command her to speak in such a state? She could barely breathe let alone think. Her fist beat against the covers, eyes rolling in her head as she pecked up on her elbows to look at him properly.

“I want your mouth, I want your fingers, I want your cock,” she declared loudly and watched as a smile were barely kept at bay on his face. “ _I want you.”_

Her skin were graced with kisses until his lips were on her core once more, tongue relentless in its chase for her to fall over the edge. The words fueled his actions, adding another finger and picked up the pace until she was a sobbing mess. And just as she was tiptoeing closer to the edge, able to see over it and ready to fall through with open arms, he removed himself once more.

“You’re cruel!” She cried in frustration. It only made him laugh, smile beaming on his slick lips at the pout on her face. If there were ever any reason to use magic it was now and yet hers remain dormant.

“Cruel you say,” he said, slowly drawing nearer her face, lips grazing over her skin. Was he feeling the same flutter in his chest as she did hers? Did her touch leave him feeling home like his did hers? An inhumane groan escaped his lips that were pressed against her neck, when his erection brushed against her thigh. By now it must be painfully constrained.

“Evil,” she murmured and smiled at the ceiling, not allowing him to finish his sentence.

“Evil,” he huffed loudly and held himself up to look at her, lips parted in a smile.

“Yes, cruel and evil.”

“How am I so cruel and evil, hmm?”

She caressed his cheek, brushing hair out of his face and behind his ear. “By making me want you as badly as this.”

“I can accept those traits,” he murmured and let her taste herself upon his tongue. Her fingers were nimble and made quick work of his shirt, pushing the fabric off his body and let them travel over the smooth skin of his chest. Michael let his forehead fall against hers for a small moment of sincerity, the two only existing in each others presence.

Outside the sky split open with lightning crossing the dark, a rumble following. Rain pecked at the window, pouring down in quiet streams.

Oya kissed him, letting her tongue explore his lip in a silent plea of entrance. He opened up and kissed her deeply, letting her taste her sweet slick once more. Rising her hips and brushing herself against him she swallowed up his moans and wrapped her arms around his neck to keep him close. Michael quickly unbuckled his pants and pushed them down, throwing them off with a kick. The same was done with the restraining boxers, freeing his erection that sprung up to his abdomen. It was pulsating with need, a thick vein moving by his pumping blood and head red.

“Climb further in,” Michael ordered gently. She did as he said, pushing herself over the sheets until her head hit the pillows. With an intense gaze, Michael climbed onto the bed, kissing his way up her body, licking over her hardened nipple, until they came face to face. He parted her legs once more, aligning himself with her wet core, teasing her by running his cock over her swollen bud and dipping only the tip into her depths.

“Don’t tease, Michael,” she pleaded with velvety voice. “I want you inside me.”

He didn’t hesitate or tease any longer, entering her slowly and drawing silent moans from her throat. Michael himself weren’t as quiet and declared his pleasure with vocal moans. With each roll of his hips, she was pressed further into the mattress. The feeling of him finally inside of her, buried to the hilt, made the flutter course through her system, spread beneath her flesh with a warm touch. Michael guided her legs over his shoulders, the position letting him deeper within the depths of her wet and hot core. Her eyes rolled, lip released from between her teeth when a groan slipped through her silent moans.

Her native tongue slipped through the cracks of her scattered mind and found their way upon her lips, curses that could easily be translated but her mind wouldn’t do the work. When her curses died down, small admissions of love found their way. If he understood he would have looked at her differently, maybe even halted, but curses and loving words were blurted together and he would only know which was which if he spoke her language.

A crease worked its way between his brows, sweat beading at his hairline and cheeks reddening by their activities. When he felt himself come close to the edge he let her legs fall to his right side, disconnecting them for a moment. Confused by his sudden action Oya stifled a curse.

Michael came to her side, sliding his arm under her neck to perk her head up against his shoulder, using the other arm to push her ass towards him. Heat radiated from his chest and into her back, their sweaty bodies rubbing against one another. He entered her once more, the new angle making him hit the right spot every time he thrust into her. Oya ached her back away from him letting him enter her more easily. Her fingers intertwined with his just as their tendrils of magic intertwined, hearts beating as one, both panting for air.

With his free hand, he let it slide between the valley of her breasts, up her neck and beckoned her to twist around to kiss him. The kiss was sloppy and wet, filled with stifled moans and loud groans. No longer needing his hand to turn her face, he let it travel down her body and between her thighs, drawing circles over her swollen and abused clit. Her hips jerked away from his touch but found no refuge as it followed. The pain was delicious. The way he consumed her, how he knew exactly knew what to do and how to do it, the way he responded to her sounds and how her body reacted showed just how much he paid attention to her.

He made her forget the world outside, forget her past, hell he could make her forget her name. He could make her forget everything but this moment.

And for him, she was a blessing, a way to mend the scattered heart within his chest, if only just for a moment.

“I-I’m-,” she moaned, feeling her coil so close to snapping.

“I know, I know,” he reassured and thrust into her chasing the same release. She clenched around him, turning the world white with pure ecstasy, bliss coming from the coil snapping with a maddening vengeance that seemed to ripple into her soul. For a moment all breath escaped her, mind scattered in pieces as Michael fell over the edge himself. There entwined hands were pained by the pressure, knuckles white with strain. Her free hand clutched the covers.

Michael buried his face in the crook of her neck riding out his orgasm. “Lily of the valley.”

Oya chuckled at his words and continued to do so until Michael withdrew from her to lie on his back, brushing his hair away from his sweaty face to steady his breath. She rolled to his side, watching his silhouette, his proud nose and lips to die for. He were a beauty that no one could deny.  

She didn’t speak finding that no words were needed. This were like everything else his choice, she wouldn’t ask him to leave, couldn’t but she wouldn’t ask him to stay either. _He_ were the one to choose.

His eyes fluttered shut, tiredness washing over him with sudden effect. “Two days.”

“Hmm?” she hummed feeling her body ache with the same tiredness he had washing over him. Michael turned to her, fingers brushing over her chest bone, between her breasts with just the tip of his finger.

“That’s when we go to them,” he said. Her eyes snapped to him, suddenly awake. Within her chest her heart strained almost painfully, beating violently and with agonizing force. His hand spread out across her ribs just below her breast, feeling her heart fight against her ribs with shattering force. If her bones weren’t strong they might have shattered like glass on stone floor.

He had given her truth, worshipped her like the goddess she was and now he gave her what she longed for the most.

“You give me my vengeance,” she said and cupped his cheek. “I might not be able to repay you.”

“I’m not asking for anything.” He might not ask for anything but she would repay him, even if she didn’t know how in this moment.

“Do I really smell like a garden?” She questioned with a tease. Michael smiled at her.

“Yes but your bed only smells like lavender,” he answered.

Michael pulled her close, fitting her head beneath his jaw in the curve of his throat, hands wrapping around her body. Like their magic, they entwined themselves with one another and like this, they fell asleep. With Michael by her side, there were no need of a cover, he radiated enough heat to keep her warm throughout the night. She would wake to small sounds leaving Michaels lips, half said words and sentences that made no sense while his mind were clouded with dreams. She chuckled at the innocence of him, his brows smooth and unworried, body relaxed and breath calm.

Unknown to her it was the first time in a while he slept well, unbothered by nightmares formed of past events and uncertain future. This time his dream was just that, a dream. Unconsciously he pulled her further into him, humming with content at the contact. She smiled to herself and wondered if he’d still be there when she woke up in the morning. Sleep swept her up and gone she was into a dreamless slumber.

By the morning, in golden rays of sunlight, she found Michael still in her bed.

  



	10. Vengeance breeds vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oya and Michael travle to Venice to face off against her family.

The stone-ground of Venice clicked under their heels. Around them buildings rose from the floor, some old and cracked while others remained fine and proud. It was beautiful, with arches of all kind cut out from stone and marble, with channels and gondolas, green plants in window sills, marble statues. It was a whole other world than what she knew.

Michael had held out his arm for her to take and like that they walked over the stone, backs held straight, following the black wings in the sky that soared through the air. Tourists and inhabitants took pictures of them and why wouldn’t they when the two matched so perfectly, so out of place with their clothing that resembled something more fit for the runway than a walk through a tourist attraction. Michael wore a deep emerald green velvet jacket with a black shirt underneath, a fine black vest over it to keep the onyx tie in its place. On the tie were small silver specks, barely visible to the eye. His shoes were fine and polished with silver tips. In all honesty, he looked like a young god.

When she first saw him she stood still in silent admiration of his angelic look that turned something darker by the serpent gleam in his eyes. At the inner corner of his eyelids were the same emerald green that matched his jacket. That matched her.

Oya’s dress was black, the fabric thin and all too showy for casual wear. It showed the soft skin of her breasts covered in tyl that drew all the way up around her neck and only two strips went through the see-through fabric covering up her nipples. The sleeves were puffy, with small silver specks. Her black hair waved over her shoulders, covering up heavy emerald earrings shaped as snakes.

This was what they wore, their war attire, their war paint. It was showing the best side of themselves, cover up insecurities and instead make them sharp weapons to be used ruthlessly against their enemies. And this was the exact reason why their pictures were taken.

They walked towards what looked like a cathedral, the roof in high bows, with spires shooting up from the fine stone, reaching towards the sky. Statues were carved out of marble, all of old deities and gods, none of which Oya recognized. Columns held it up, thick and round, with patterns carved finely into them just like the carvings on the walls. Outside the heavy wooden door, dark against the sandy walls stood guards. They kept the tourists from entering, they stood as the first line of defence.

Oya’s crows landed on the roof, basking their wings and crowing. _Craw, craw, craw._ An omen of death. As they approached the crows landed at the stone floor, watching the guards look at each other before walking towards them.

“The cathedral is closed to the public, you’ll have to return another day,” one of the guards voiced first in Italian and then in English. Oya and Michael continued towards them. “I said-,”

“We heard you,” Michael voiced, elegantly moving a finger through the air. The guards stiffened with their backs completely straight, eyes blank. They turned around and walked back to their spot by the door. Oya slipped her hand from his arm, walking further towards the cathedral, hand stretched out in from of her, moving it softly through the air as if she were moving it through water.

The spell put up were intricate but not unbreakable, it was to keep mortals and other witches out, it was to keep her out more specifically. Now that her chains had been broken her power had grown, flourished in the release and with Michaels guidance controlled. She crouched down and started to draw on the marble floor, a half-circle resembling the sun with four spikes running through it, in each compartment she drew different sigils and outside a square. Her crows jumped closer curious of her movements and when she suddenly stood they violently bashed their wings in surprise.

She walked to the antique door, disregarding the old wood and what the chalk might do to it and began drawing a square on it, each side given a symbol. Michael came up behind her, intertwining his fingers with hers when she finally finished drawing, the chalk discarded over her shoulder to break against the stone floor. Their powers laced together, humming at their fingertips. Words that had not been spoken for centuries left her mouth soon to be replicated by Michael who followed her lead.

He didn’t question her methods, he didn’t correct her or think that he knew better, that his way was better, instead, he allowed her to do this her way, it was her revenge and he would not stand in the way of that.

There was a part of him that wanted to tear down every column, every statue, every fucking stone and see it sunk to the bottom of the ocean for what they did to her, the pain they had caused her. But he knew just how much revenge was worth and how much it meant, she needed to be the one to do that, not him. He was there as a spectator, a witness, support.

The chalk seared itself into the door, glowing embers following the pattern, edged and still burning. The spell was destroyed, the defence fallen. With a groan, the door was opened by the guards that closed it behind them as they entered.

The inside of the cathedral was all marble, arches cut from stone, statues with a dead gaze staring after them. The arched ceiling was covered in paintings, trimmed with gold and sapphic blue. It was beautiful and old, a reminder of a different time. The air was still and cold, the only warmth coming from the candles.

Oya and Michael walked further in, passing rows of dark wooden benches all faced towards the magnificent altar and the circle of chairs all manned by witches and a few warlocks. They watched silently as the two of them approached, some panicked while others kept a mask of stone on their face resembling the statues. The seat with its back towards the altar, the single tallest chair, were manned by none other than her mother, dressed in a fine tailored suit that matched her surroundings. Her hair was pinned up in a tight bun, not a single hair out of order.

Obsidian eyes ran over the two intruders with a cold glance. “We knew you’d come.” It was strange the way her voice carried through the room, distant and cold but somehow striking. It had always been like that, devoid of warmth, especially towards her oldest daughter.

“You think your little protection spell would keep me out?” Oya questioned and found her voice just as cold as hers. She entered the circle, all eyes on them. Michael stood a few paces behind her, hands calmly held behind his back while he observed with mild indifference towards them.

“No,” Haesoo spoke calmly. “You’d find a way to get in regardless of the spell.”

Oya glanced to her sister that stood a total opposite of her own form, embraced by golden sunlight, catching her blond hair that fell in soft curls down around her shoulders, lips fine pink and skin pale and soft. She wore a dress of white fabric, stars and suns and moons cut into the fabric. Darkness met with light.

“We wondered who it was that released you, who could be powerful enough to do that without our involvement,” Haesoo stood from her chair. With her mother standing it was as if it send ripples through the room, the rest of her coven moving in their seats ready for a fight. Michael wasn’t having it, he clenched his fist in the air and brought it down with a harsh swing to his side, nailing every single member to their seat, unable to move. The only one he let go was her direct blood, her mother and sister.

The sound of her mother's steps rang out into the silent room, echoing over the marble floor, climbed the arches and walls, filling it up with one step at the time. Oya remained a statue of stoic nature, calm beneath her mother's hardened gaze. The sound of flesh hitting flesh replaced the sound of her steps. It screamed in the cold room, making the flesh of her cheek red with scolding, the bite of her mother’s palm a familiar sting. Michael moved behind her, she felt his anger through the tethers of magic around him but he contained it to a poisonous glare.

“I knew I should have left you to the wolves when you were born.”

Oya rolled her head back in place, eyes black orbs fixed on her mother with a cold anger Michael couldn’t help but be proud of. Hidden beneath the stoic mask, the child that wanted nothing more than her parents' approval cried. No matter what ones parents did to their child, there would always be a part of them, a tiny part hidden beneath layers of emotions, that wished for their parents' acceptance, their love. She was no different.

“I was weak, you were my flesh and blood, my firstborn. How could I do such a thing?” Haesoo’s voice wavered if just a little. Softly she brushed the hand that had stuck her daughter over her burning cheek and it broke something within Oya. She flinched away from her mother's touch, anger burning in her eyes, tearing up her throat.

“You had me raped,” she hissed out venomously. “You had me raped and left bound to that fucking place for centuries!” Her voice echoed through the chapel, climbed the sacred walls and made home under the arching dome, painted gold and blue. The magic in her lashed out, every flame rising to critical levels with a hiss and the many rows of benches screeched over the floor.

“You slaughtered a village did you really think that would be forgiven? I made sure we weren't all hunted and killed, I made sure the world thought it be poisoned water and not magic,” Haesoo exclaimed at her daughter. “For that, I should have bound you to a cave never to be found. But I was your mother and I could not do that. I loved you, in my own way, and your sister begged for you to have a life, a proper one.”

“You never loved me. You hated me since I was born,” Oya said with a deep and hoarse voice. “Lies won't save you.”

“You never did believe me, regardless of my words.”  Haesoo smiled with sharp lips, eyes still as cold as ice. “But I did love you in a way. And you, my dear child, wanted to be loved so bad.”

“Years of imprisonment made sure that need was snuffed out. The moment you tore my powers from me, the moment he raped me, that need for your love died. You killed the girl and created something far more dangerous.” It was a wonder how her voice fell into a sneering drawl. For a moment she saw her mother’s eyes flash in fear, for just a moment. Haesoo had put everything into her entrapment, the spell draining every drop of magic in her blood. Oya could feel it, the void of it, the lack of magic around her mother's presence. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could protect herself with, she stood defenceless in front of a goddess and stared her dead in the eye. No one could deny she was brave in the face of death.

“If I knew you would break the spell, I would have killed you instead.”

“And now you’re without powers to defend yourself.”

“I’m without powers, yes. But I’m far from defenceless.” At this, her sister rose in all her glory. Her magic radiated off of her with a pulsating glow, the feeling of the sun climbing along Oya’s skin. It was strange how her sister had become the complete opposite, her magic being light and full of life while her own was dark and with a whisper of death.

“Oya,” her sister spoke, brows lifted in sympathy. She couldn’t get used to the blue in her sister's eyes, the colour of clear Angelite, beautiful. They matched with Michaels. Oya could feel him behind her, silently watching, his familiar tendrils climbing along her back with a soft caress, telling her that he was right there with her. His powers never wavered, never withdrew from her but instead lulled her with its touch.

“You can still change. You’re my sister and I love you, please you don’t have to do this.”

The laugh that left her mouth was cynical and sharp. “I will do this. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be betrayed by the ones who should have loved you unconditionally! I trusted you and you held me down as I was raped and stripped of parts of me I didn’t think I could regain. And for that, you will all pay.”

With a harsh flick of her hand, Haesoo and Ina flew backwards over the floor, planting themselves firmly in their chairs, hands gripping so tightly at the armrests their knuckles turned white. She took over the iron grip Michael had held on the circle. Glass smashed above them, coloured pieces breaking in to much smaller speckles when they hit the floor. Her crows sored in and landed on her sister's chair, croaking and basking their wings at her magic.

She lifted one hand and watched as the coven did the same, forced to replicate her movements. They froze in position, some crying while others cursed when their palms were forced to face up. The goddess looked over at Michael who stalked to her side, lifting his jacket to pull out a long thin dagger, the same one her mother had used during the ritual. He placed the shaft gently in her palm, letting his fingers trace the skin of her inner wrist. It was a sweet caress that stilled the nerves within her body.

“Don’t do this!” Ina managed to cry out.

“Please don't kill us,” someone else croaked at the same time.

“Oh, I’m not killing you. Most of you have done nothing but associate with the wrong person, the ones present at my binding died long ago, you’re just very unlucky. How you managed to stay alive all these years did surprise me, Mother.”

“I had to make sure you were never released.”

“You failed.” Haesoo looked at Michael, her face unreadable but eyes burning with anger Oya had seen so many times before when she was but a child. It was burning with disdain.

“Are you the one who took down the New Orleans coven?” Haesoo spoke. Her question halted her daughters ritual, who looked up at Michael. His face remained the same, the smug glint in his eyes and a satisfied tug at his lips. There wasn’t a single hair out of place. He didn’t even blink at her question. Power, raw and unadulterated, emanated from every fibre of his being. In the face of this accusation, she couldn’t help the flutter in her heart.

“Yes.”

“Oya,” the fear was evident in her voice. “This man is far more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. He’s using you for your power. He will be your destruction.”

“This man released me, he didn’t tremble in fear of my power, he taught me control.”

“He is-,”

“I know who he is!” She screamed and let her power flicker out in the form of cracks climbing up the columns. The blade bit into her palm, drawing blood forth. It burned and stung, the pain nothing compared to the anger that was ignited inside of her. Did she really think so little of her own daughter that she wouldn't be aware of the circumstances? If Michael was using her then so fucking be it but she would not for one second let him destroy her, regardless of her feelings towards him. If he were her destruction she would be his.

Every palm held upwards now bleed, the steams of it running from the wounds and onto the marble, staining it red with blood. Michael took the knife from her and walked over to one of the coven members, her white shirt now ruined by the blade. He dried it off in her fabric before placing it in the pocket he had taken it from. One of her crows took wind under its wings and flew to land on her arm. It screeched as she picked feathers from its body, its claws biting into her skin and tearing at her dress.

“I will not kill you,” she voiced, placing a feather inside the wound and carefully guided their palms shut around it. Some signed in relief and she couldn’t help but smirk at their naivety. “Instead I show you the future.” She when on to the next member and replicated the ritual she had just performed, placing the feather in the wound and closing their hand around it. Most of them shook, she didn’t know if it was out of fear or straining against her magic or just maybe it was at the prospect of facing off against a goddess of the underworld. There is no vengeance that can compare to a goddess'. “You will see and you will know. That is your punishment, knowledge of what the future will bring and how utterly insignificant your actions to prevent it will be.” Now every single wound was sealed with a feather. She let her tendrils grow, wrap around their fragile human form, go under their skin and reach into their very being. All eyes turned white, clouded by the vision of the future, the very vision she herself had experienced. It unfolded before them, the cries of billions, the bombs falling, the fear leaking into their souls. When they returned, their eyes were wide with horror.

“You will end the world because you weren't loved enough as a child!” Haesoo roared, trying with all her might to break free of her daughters hold over her body. Ina silently stared into the floor.

Oya walked to her mother, placing a hand upon her chest and forcing her back against the spine of the chair. Her mother clenched her hands, her wound bleeding in an endless stream while the other held the chair in a breaking grip. “I will burn this fucking world down because I can and you will all know what is coming but can do absolutely nothing about it. You are burdened with knowledge and will never be able to tell anyone about it, not in any way.” She let her mother go, stepping back into the circle until her back was met with Michael’s chest. There in the middle, the two stood, a pair of darkness. “I curse you with that but it is not the only curse. If you use magic, any form of magic, you will kill the people you love. For every flick of the wrist, for every spell, for every curse or blessing, whatever magic you use, you will kill someone in your circle, the more you use the more you kill.”

The feather burned in their palms, some screaming in pain, tears staining their cheeks in spite of wanting to remain as passive as possible. They broke in the wake of her power digging into their very being. What they felt were a fraction of the pain she felt but the fear, the fear was a far greater weapon that caused so much more dispare than pain.

The feather grew into their flesh and with black webs, it climbed up their arms, under their skin until it settled in their hearts and only then the black webs disappeared. Her tendrils retracted, releasing them from their bindings. Ina gasped and fell to her knees on the ground, fingers gripping at the stone as if to steady herself in reality. Her mother wasn’t so docile, she stood with force removing a carved out piece of the arms of the chair producing a knife. She created a monster and she would do anything to make up for that mistake. With an angry howl, she moved through the room, slicing through the air in an attempt to end her daughters' life, to remove from the world what she brought into it.

Michael wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her back out of the way of the biting blade. The utter madness in her mother's eyes struck her, the desperate look of a woman who had nothing left to lose.

Oya stopped her, the anger burning through her skin, climbing over the floor with cracks to the marble. It climbed her mother’s pale flesh, blood pouring from the wounds that split open her skin, tearing through the fabric of her cloth with invisible claws. The noise she made, an inhumane sound caught between a wail and a blood-curdling scream, echoed in the cathedral. The air seemed to vibrate the same way it does just before a thunderstorm, electricity knitting through it.

“He will never love you, he cannot love,” she managed to utter as her eyes turned red and blood claimed the trail of her tears. There was a sound of ripping, of something being torn from her mother, yet she remained in one bloodied piece and fell the floor lifeless. Her pupils had ruptured, exploded into the obsidian and ruby coloured eyes.  

Oya felt Michael beside her, his presence calming. It was strange how her skin tickles with the touch of power, she felt her blood course through her and heartbeat with impressive force within her chest. Every part of her was electric. At this moment she felt the world gravel at her feet and she loved every second of it. She was drunk on power and smirked when her sister screamed at the sight of her mother’s body.

Michael let her turn in his arms so that she could look upon him. The fire in his eyes send vibrations down her spin and lit up a fire inside of her, the fumes from her powers igniting just by the look in his piercing eyes. There were no other words to describe it other than _desire_ , unrefined and in its purest form. Their bloodlust had been satisfied, her vengeance taken with outmost pleasure and now they longed for something other, a more carnal satisfaction.

“Let's go home,” she said and took his arm. Behind her, she listened to the coven members mourn their leader, lose their minds in the face of annihilation and most of all her sisters cries. Ina had been the good daughter, the one who loved the most and were loved the most, the prodigy. She had lost her sister long ago but never accepted that she was dark to the fullest. And now, sitting by her mother’s dead body, the woman she loved the most in the world, she felt herself hate her sister.

Oya’s crows left the same way the came in, with a haunting laugh leaving them as they flew through the broken window, a mocking of the life that had been taken. They carried the soul of her mother, the messengers of death, their wings carrying death with them.

Vengeance was a virus, it spread and spread until there was nothing left.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the gods please leave me a comment with what you think.


	11. Blood Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oya and Michael preforms a bloody ritual that'd change their relationship forever.

They arrived in the dead of night outside of the house she now called home. It was no longer a prison but a place she wanted to be. The skies above them were clear, stars shining brightly as silver speckles drizzled over the indigo sky. Trees grew with shadows, grass dark beneath their shoes and a sea of ink around them. Small whispers climbed up her skin with a cold breath, her magic speaking to her. It was vastly different from the time they beckoned her to the lake, this time they were softer, like still kisses, whispers that aren't words but a feeling. She wondered if Michael felt them too. 

Oya slipped her arm out of his, walking towards the forest. The shadows swallowed her up, painting her a ghost in a silhouette of trees. He could follow her if he wanted. Branches snapped beneath her feet, heels sinking in the forest floor. The trees clawed at her dress, ripping the fabric and destroying it. It didn’t matter, there were other dresses, it wasn’t the first she’d destroy and most certainly weren't the last. Bark nibbled at her skin as she used the tree to remain balanced, slipping off her heels and leaving them as a relic in the forest. The fertile soil were soft beneath her feet. 

She came to a clearing, a perfect circle made of a shadow wall of trees, the grass fine and short. A branch snapped behind her, Michael coming up to stand beside her, eyes a dark ocean in the night. “Zip me up,” she asked quietly, removing her hair from her neck. Michael complied silently running the zipper down her back, letting his fingers brushed against her. His touch made her eyes flutter and heart speed up. Did he feel it too, the invisible tethers guiding her actions? 

Goosebumps traveled over her skin when the cool night breathed against her. Oya turned when the dress slipped from her now naked form. Her hands brushed the soft velvet of his jacket, finding their way into the inner pocket and slipped out the thin knife. It caught the gleam of the oranged mood darkening with each second. It called to her, its power a silent embrace. 

She walked out into the middle, hair falling in waves around her, being played with by the soft wind. She felt his eyes on her, running over her skin, following her movements, catching the flicker of the knife a silver light in the shadows. The blood moon stood full upon the sky, red as roses, red as rubies, red as the liquid from which life springs. It was one of those celestial powers, stronger than a comet crossing the sky, stronger than a shower of stars, stronger even than the usual eclipse.  

The blood moon was an omen of death and decay but also of change, something new. From death springs life. 

In the light of the moon she twirled, moving through the air with elegance, slow alluring dances from a time long past, a tribute to the energy. She felt free, without a care left. Vengeance had opened something within her, the last seal within her broken. Her magic whirled around her, the trees singing in the wind, dancing with her every move. 

The blade bit into her skin, a fine line drawn below her collarbones letting the blood run down her chest. It was warm and sticky and oh so familiar. Similar lines were drawn over her wrists, letting the blood run down her fingers. She brought two red fingers to her lips, smearing the blood over her lips. 

Warmth embraced her before he did, his bare chest against hers. A smirk tugged at her lips. Did he know what he was doing? Within her chest drummed the heart of a hummingbird. Was he aware of the power that surrounded them? He turned her in his arms, eyes reflecting the moon with a purple twinkle. Thin and deliberate fingers wrapped around her wrist and guided the knife below his collarbone, the tip sinking into the pale skin and drawing a single droplet of blood out. 

Oya hesitated. “Michael…”

“I know you want this, I can feel it,” he drawled pressing himself into the blade. The blood trickled down his skin. “ _ Tell me you want this, tell me you’re mine _ .”

“It’s dangerous and can cause far greater pain than any of us knows,” she whispered, watching as Michael guided her hand with the blade over his skin. A stream of blood poured down his chest, he lifted the blade to the other side and drew a veil of blood to match. Though she faltered at the ritual, no longer paying tribute to the energy of the blood moon and no longer celebrating her freedom, the last seal within her being broken. This was ancient powers and beyond dangerous for both of them, the cost far greater than what the could possibly perceive. 

The blade bit into his wrist, eyes never leaving her, never wavering at the sting. He cut open his wrist and did the same to the other. Blood streamed down his hands painting his skin. The sight was familiar, one she had seen before during the first ritual she saw him perform, when he revealed who he was. 

The blade slipped from her hand and fell to the ground, cutting into the meadow and rising up as if it was planted. Oya led her hand up Michaels chest smearing the blood over his skin. She painted his lips red with blood, just like she had done with her own. His lips parted, his hot breath crawling over her fingers moments before his sinful tongue darted out to lick the blood off her fingers. 

She drew in her breath, holding the air in her lungs, watching him take her fingers into his mouth with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Teeth scraped over skin only to be soothed by his tongue. Unadulterated desire shot through her system, she crashed her lips to his. If she could devour his soul, however rotten it may be, she’d do it just to satisfy the need for him. 

Michael wrapped his arms around her and smirked into the kiss. He savoured the feeling of her, the way her skin brushed his, the way their blood mashed together, their powers intertwining in consensus, their energies merging into something else. Her lips taste of iron and victory, it was maddening, it was addicting. If she knew how replaced the hatred in his veins with relief she might look at him differently. 

In the light of the moon the two stood as the last gods of earth bathed in blood and worshiped by the night. 

“Michael,” Oya moaned against his lips, relishing in the feeling of his hands running over her flesh, smearing the blood and painting her red. Michael rested his forehead against hers, breathless but vigorous at her presence. A smirk played on her lips as she looked up at him eyes both innocent and entierly sultery at the same time. “ _ Tell me what you want _ .”

Michael chuckled at her words, knowing exactly where they came from. Her breath hitched when his hands slid up her body, fingers tickling over nipples that hardened at the touch, to cradle her head between the palm of his hands. “I want you.”

“In what way,” she continued breathless. She bit her lip, trying to keep it together. 

“I want you to be mine,” he purred, moving closer to her. “I want to possess you, to have you at my side but right now, I want to fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

Once more their lips met in a heated open mouthed kiss, tongues dancing around one another. Oya caught Michaels bottom lip between her teeth and bit into the soft flesh with enough force to draw blood, the taste of iron once more prevailed and filled her mouth and when he moaned she licked over the wound and began kissing her way down his neck. The cuts below his sculpted collar bones had closed up but the blood was still fresh. Slowly she worked her way down, tracing her teeth over his nipple and earning a breathy moan before she ventured lower. 

When she fell to her knees Michael wrapped a hand round her jaw just as she were about to take his erection into her mouth. Their eyes met, both drowning in desire, darkened by lust. His thumb moved over her lips and in between them, she gracefully took it into her mouth and sucked just like he had done with her fingers, clearing of blood. Michael’s eyes fluttered at the feeling. 

She let go with a pop, nails trailing over his muscular thighs. He fell to his knees in front of her, removing his erection from her face. It made her brows knit in a puzzling look that was quickly forgotten when his hands removed the hair from her neck, lips tracing over her ear and breath hot when he spoke. “How wet are you?”

The words seemed to jumble together in her mind and left broken mewls on her lips. In an effort to relieve herself just a little she clenched her things together, her folds completely slick and wet at this point. If she were being honest she had been wet since they left venice. “I’m so wet, Michael.” She took his hand and placed it between her legs for him to feel just what his presence did to her. 

Michael smirked, of course he did. He could always tell when she was aching, he could always see right through her defences, he knew exactly what he did to her but like with everything else verbal admission got his rocks off. The thrill of getting the opponent riled up, leaving them aching or embarrassed, most of all  _ open _ , was what brought him the biggest pleasure. Michael moved his fingers between her wet folds, circling her clit. Her head fell against the crook of his neck while moans escaped her lips.

With feverish need she rocked her center into his hand and relished the feeling of his fingers curling against her in just the way that made her head spin. “So wet and needy, you’re basically fucking yourself on my hand.”

If the energy around them weren't clouding her mind, if the adrenalin and relief of her victory didn’t cling to her, if her powers weren’t vibrating the air around her, dancing and intertwining with his, she would have been embarrassed or just maybe she’d have rebuked and wrapped her hand around his very cock that was digging into her stomach to make  _ him _ feel just as she did. But her mind was clouded, the adrenaline in her veins did intensify the way his fingers toyed with her and her powers were twirling in vortexes around them in an endless dance with his. 

Yet she mustered up her defiance and matched him by nibbling at his earlobe and whispering to him, “You’re the one who wanted me so how about you do something about it, if you want to possess me you have to work for it.”

In the blink of an eye soft and dewy grass met her back, her legs spread wide open with Michael in between them. Where he belonged. A moan was hidden behind clenched teeth, finger digging in to the ground as she felt his shaft run up her folds. In the darkness of the night, hidden behind golden waves, sculptured by shadows he looked like a young god, nothing less. His strong veiny hands held both of her arms down, his chest chiseled and toned, painted by dark red that looked like ink poured over marble skin. Before she knew of it his mouth wrapped around her breast, taking her nipple in between his teeth and rolled his tongue around it. She ached into his touch, wrist now freed as he used the other hand to play with her other nipple. Digging her heels into the ground she lifted her hips up against him and felt his moan vibrate through his throat. She continued like this, rolling her hips against his, eyes fluttering at the feeling of him. 

When he finally released her nipple after giving it a merciless pinch that had her whining into the night, her chest were a mixture of saliva and blood. The mess between her legs had only grown, coating Michael’s cock with slick and blood. “I’m going to make you say it, over and over and over.”

“Say what?” She uttered, continuing the roll of her hips. Her bottom lip became caught between her teeth when she watched Michael look up at her with the eyes of a predator, her walls clenching with need. It was most likely stupid to deeter him but she couldn’t help herself. What he wanted was clear, she knew exactly what he wanted, it had been clear from the very start. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he purred falling to his elbows before wrapping his arms around her thighs, spreading her out in front of him. His breath was hot and tickled over her aching core. “I’m going to make you scream it.”

He dived in, dragging his tongue over her folds and lapping up her juices as if it was the last thing he’d do. With this ritual it could likely be and yet, this part weren’t really part of it, he didn’t need to eat her out so good it made her eyes water and toes curl, what he needed to do was fuck her and drink in her blood, one of which he had already done. 

She felt herself near the edge and he had only just begun. The air seemed thick and not nearly enough for her as she panted and withered in front of him, body jerking as she tried to hold back her orgasm from coming prematurely. When he moaned against her, her eyes fluttered, the vibration travelling up her body until a string of moans fell from her lips. 

“Michael, I-I,” she stuttered, fingers tangling in the grass and pulling a handful up by the root. His eyes never left hers, they carried a flame to them, mischievous with a touch of punishing. The orgasem rolled over her in waves, walls clenching around nothing, body arched to the sky and a long drawn out sound pulled from her throat. Michael continued his attack on her through the orgasm, lapping up every drop of her juices with eager intent, relentless and ruthless by the way his tongue pressed into her, circled around her, flattened and then hard. It was a wonder he hadn’t come up for air. 

When she whined, his tongue now painful against her swollen and overly sensitive clit, he shot her a well intended and stubborn glare, then continued his relentless ways on her. Pain soon turned into pleasure that turned into a coil that snapped when his fingers came into play. This continued until tears run down her face, groans of pleasure and pain partening her lips after coming once, twice, thrice. 

Then and only then, when she tangled her hand in his hair and yanked, would he release her misused pussy from his mouth. For a moment she breathed relieved and watched how his lips were gleaming in the moonlight, face covered in her. It was hard to grasp that not long ago he was a virgin and even then he was well versed in the ways of sex.

She tasted herself on his lips, licking her slick and cum off of him, when he climbed between her legs. “Maybe it’s you who will scream when you sink into this abused so so very tight slick pussy.”

Michael groaned against her, cock running over her folds. He chuckled when she winced at the feeling, knowing just how sensitive she was. Every little touch he made on her would leave her feeling it tenfold, she had become a sensitive little thing that still hadn’t been satisfied by what she really needed. 

Locking her thighs around him, Oya used what little strength she had to roll him over onto his back and straddle him. Underneath her weight and the three orgasms her legs jittered trying to keep her up. The only reason she was able to was pure stubbornness. Her hand wrapped around his cock, Michael rolling his head back in the grass, a crown of dark straws around his head. He was heavy and hard in her hand, precum tickeling down his shaft and overall pulsating with need. She stroked him a few times, watched as his adams apple danced in front of her, his face contorting in pleasure with eyes rolled back, brows raised and mouth hanging open.

Lines were drawn over his body, removing the drying blood and painting his skin red where there were none. Slowly she sank on to him, biting her lip as she took in his length. He was long, he had always been long but he was also thick. It was strangely pleasing to watch him disappear into her. She felt his pulsating vein against her walls, reminding her of how stretched out he made her feel and just how hard his heart drummed within his chest. “Fuck! Ah,  _ fuck.” _ Her curses were a mix of english and korean, her native tongue seemingly alway coming out in these situations. 

Michael weren't much better, though his curses were only in english. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet. Ah, fuck!”

When she had finally taken all of him in, she rolled her hips against his, moving on shaking legs up and down. Michael supported her with his hands on her hips, helping her move. As soon as she had lifted herself off of him, Michael snapped his hips to hers in a hard fluent motion that made her eyes roll back at the feeling. 

The energy of the ritual laced them together, a fire suddenly bursting aflame in a circle around them. The grass burned, smoke rising in flowing patterns, while the blue flames licked at the sky. Michael thrusted up into her once more, her walls clenching around him, already close to the edge. Another flaming circle appeared outside the original one. This continued to happen with each thrust until there were nine circles, the largest one at the edge of the clearing. 

Blue flames turned normal, orange and yellow tongues licking at the dark sky. The blood moon had reached its peak, the energy flowing around them, tickling along their skin, beckoning them further into their chase of bliss.

Michael abruptly sat up, wrapping his arm around her waist to hold her close. He quickened his pace, pearl of sweat beating at his hairline, blood running in wet droplets down his skin. Oya removed his hair from his face, fingers digging into his shoulders as she rode him. She looked into his eyes, the fire reflected on them. Michael gaped when the white of her eyes turned red just as she did when his turned completely black. This were their true faces, their heritage showing itself, their souls exposed so that they could be bound together. 

It had maybe been foolish to bind yourself to the antichrist, bind yourself to anyone. But the thought were so far from her mind, gone ever since the cathedral. Maybe she’d given herself up the moment she took his hand and stepped over the threshold. Maybe she would live to regret it. 

But the maybe’s were for another time. They didn’t exist within her head, the only thing were the moment, were Michael revealing his soul to hers, were him inside of her, were their lacing together. It was the only thing that mattered, the two underneath the sky. 

She rolled her hips into his and took his face in her hands, intensely looking straight at him. “I am yours.” Her voice were clear and firm despite his cock rapidly brushing against the spot that made her thighs shake. “I am yours body and soul.”

Michael kissed her hungerly and thrust into her once more time before coming undone, filling her up with hot seed, more than previous times or so it felt like. He had already given himself over to her when he said he wanted her and now, now she had signed her soul and body over to him. Bound together, for better or for worse. His head fell into the crook of her neck, his chest moving with each pant. She wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his while she tried to come down from her orgasm, the fourth. The nine rings of fire had gone out, the blood moon bleed into the night leaving the moon clear white once more. 

With a ritual like this, so ancient and strange, you’d never really know what it did, what it needed from its participants. One had voiced their part of their deal, signing over their body and soul, while the other had been vague. It could very well be all the same or it could make a difference. None of them, however, thought of it, nor did they ever question the others investment. Whatever the ritual really did, they were bound together now, for eternity. The most honest way of giving your heart away and the most dangerous. Yet the word to describe it all had still not been spoken into existence, it remained on their tongues but never voiced. 

“If you want the world,” Oya uttered with hoarse voice, leaning back to look at him. “I will give it to you.”

Michael smiled and pushed a strand of tousled hair out of her face and behind her ear, fingers caressing over her cheek. “I will give you a new world.”

They sat like that for a while, connected, letting their breathing become normal while they watched each other. Admired were a better word for it. Their eyes had become normal, Obsidian and Angelite. 

Oya pecked a kiss on his lips. “We need to get cleaned up.” She laughed and picked a straw of grass out of his hair. 

“Your hair looks like a birdsnest,” he chuckled. 

“Says you!” she threw a handful of grass on him in a playful manner. Michael wrapped his hands around her and rolled her onto her back, playfully pinning her beneath him. He plucked a handful of grass and drizzled it over her while she laughed and blew it out of her face. 

With tenderness he laid his head on her chest and listened to her heartbeat. She ran her fingers through his hair untangling it and picking straws and leafs out of it. She’d imagine her own her would be a much bigger mess and take much longer to comb through. It didn't matter much not like this, not when his head rested on her so softly, his breath tickling over her skin. He was warm and this way she appreciated it all the more, keeping her from going cold in the cool night air. Circles and patterns were drawn onto her skin by one of his fingers. She wondered if he had his eyes closed, if he would fall asleep like this. If he did she wouldn't have the heart to wake him. 

_ Andromeda, Cerberus, Draco, Hydra, Orion, Serpens Caput and Cadua held by ophiuchus _ . The sky held so many stars, untouched by the lights of man. “The sky would be the same.”

Michael hummed in question, finger coming to a stop on her skin.

“The world will be new but they sky remains.” Her voice were barely a whisper, lost in thought. Still her fingers ran through his hair. “Why atom bombs?” 

“God redid the world with a flood,” Michael answered bobbing his head up to look at her. “I see it redone by a cleansing fire.”

“But you’d leave the earth radioactive for years. If you drop too many you’d send the earth into a permanent nuclear winter. Nothing will survive.” It wasn’t to question his methods, it was merely curiosity. Michael knew this, if it were anyone else he’d have shut them up one way or another, he would not be questioned. He looked at her, if she had looked she’d see just how tenderly his eyes were, like he was looking at the only thing that meant something, like she was looking in astonishment, curiosity and with something innocent, the way she was looking at the stars. 

“How would you do it then?” He asked with genuine curiosity. 

“I don’t know. I might create a virus, it’d take time to make and for it to have an effect but eventually it’ll kill every one of them.”

“Humans tend to come together and put their best minds into creating a vaccine,” Michael countered. 

“Well, by the time they find a vaccine most will be dead, it wouldn’t take much to wipe the rest out and if you put a little curse on it, then they’ll all be gone,” she shrugged. “Only the ones I deem worthy of the new world would survive.”

“But everything of the old world would remain,” Michael said, resting his head on her once more. Oya hummed in agreement. 

“I don’t mind nature or animals, I quite like it actually. It’s the humans that suck.” Nature was beautiful and how could you think otherwise. It was filled with as much life as it was with death, there was a balance to everything. What was wrong with the world were humans, with their greed and narrow minded ways that depleted every resource nature had for their own personal gain. Not all humans was bad, that was given, but most of them she didn’t care about, why should she? They never cared about her. 

“I want to start over. With everything. I want to build a new world from scratch, create it without the hypocrisy. You can create your own eden after the cleansing fire, make the world in out image.” 

“When the radioactiveness is gone you mean? I’m not going to walk around with three eyes and blisters all over, I’m not up for that.”

Michal chuckled at her, the feeling vibrating through her chest and making her heart flutter. “No, we’ll wait out the radioactive phase in safety and when it’s over we’ll begin our work.” 

“Creating eden anew,” Oya hummed. “You’ll need people for repopulation.”

“There’s already a few selected and even then their numbers will be cut,” he said. Michael turned his head and pecked a kiss on her chest bone before bobbing his jaw up on it. She felt the pressure of him weighing down on her and didn't mind at all, quite the opposite. “Who’s to say repopulation will only fall to the humans.”

The stars did shine so very brightly above. 

  
  



	12. Satan is that you?

She saw him, hair in greasy tossels around his head, with bags under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow. His shirt was unruly, buttons missing and curled, pulled out of his pants. Kneeling among the trees, head held low, hands resting on his thighs with their palms up he looked like hell, like someone lost. Oya couldn’t get past the barrier of trees and he couldn’t hear her calls, the only thing she could do was watch, watch as he had drawn a pentagram in the ground soft with pine needles, how he had called for his father and found no answer, no help. The sky had changed from day to night, time and time again, yet he remained in place. 

She could almost feel his pain, taste the distress in the air, sense how utterly lost he was feeling. Everything came in flashes, puzzles pieces out of place, from past to present, a child in a cradle surrounded by mirrors, relief when embraced by a woman whose face she could not see, a room full of masks void of any human emotion and now the woods. 

Something moved behind him, far of in the distance, a glimpse of light hair, blue eyes and then it was gone. The feeling prickled along her skin and send a shiver down her spine. The picture shifted so quickly that she lost balance, gripping onto the tree, her nails digging into the bark. Michael was now standing, with his hand wrapped around the throat of a hooded person, no a man without clothe, blue eyes and sharp features, wings sprung from his back, he said something and then he was gone. 

She fell through, her heart stopping for a second as everything was black and cold and void. The need to get out of this place grew with every second that dragged on for hours, days, years? Something within her was missing, pain spiking through her heart so vicious she couldn’t breath. The loneliness carved into her bones, twisted itself with thorned stems growing throughout her veins and made its way into her heart. 

Oya woke with tears in her eyes, half the dream forgotten the moment she woke up, the other half a blurry mess that didn’t fit together. However, the pain on his face she couldn’t forget, the tears that had run down his cheeks as they now did hers, the way he cried out for help, for guidance and finding silence were a voice should have been. The pain of being alienated and alone lingered in her, a sniff coming from her while she turned to find the other side of the bed empty, cold where it should have been warm. 

Sitting up, her hair rolled over her shoulder in a mess, strands sticking out here and there, tousled so much that it looked far closer to a birds nest than hair. She climbed out of bed and picked up one of Michael's shirts, the size comfortably big for her smaller frame. A pair of boxers were picked out from a drawer, also too big for her hips but usable nonetheless. She wrapped the shirt tightly around her and inhaled his spicy, yet sweet scent, letting it linger in her nose for a moment. 

With careful steps she walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs to find him sitting on the couch with his back turned towards her, rubbing his eyes with a finger while listening to someone talk at the other end of the video call. She leaned against the counter, letting him remain focused on whatever it was that was so important. Who ever it was talking to him they were annoying the shit out of Michael, that much were evident by his cool tone of voice, by the way he rolled his neck when they spoke.

She could walk to him, she would have, if she weren’t distracted by the wooden door. There had been no venture down the dark stairs since that day where she discovered him. Quietly she opened the door and felt her way down the stairs, flicking on the light at the end of the steps. 

The room looked different in superficial light, there were no shadows dancing in the candle light, the candles that were, was all in various height, some bleeding out into the floor while others were almost gone. The red pentagram on the floor was more visible than ever, now cleaned off blood, though there were still traces left on the sandy marble floor. The room held a strange aura, as if there were no life within the room, the air stiff and suffocating. 

She walked around in circles, finger trailing over the walls while she drifted around and around. “I don’t know if you can hear me.” She spoke quietly but with clear articulation. “I don’t know how or what happened in the past, I don’t know what you whisper to him or what you want from him but if you ever,” she stopped and let out a breath, trying to gather her thoughts, to recall the dream. “If you ever abandon him when he needs you the most, if you ever hurt him, I swear I’ll come down there to your domain and  _ drag _ you into mine. You might be Satan but I’m Ereshkigal of the underworld and I will  _ not _ let you hurt him.” 

She stopped and looked through the empty room, eyes scanning over the unlit candles, waiting in anticipation for something to happen, for a red man with goat hooves and horns to break through the floor to strike her down, but nothing happened. She threatened Satan himself, in quick retrospect it was brave if not stupid. He was someone to fear, his power reaching far and wide, if he wanted her dead, locked away or destroyed completely it was within his capabilities. 

But she couldn’t stop herself, he needed to know that someone would hold him accountable if he abandoned Michael. The heartbreak he had been through she knew all too well herself, even if he didn’t speak of it, it was there, in the fine cracks of his soul.

Michael wanted to put a match to the world and if that was what he wished she’d pour the fucking gasoline. 

But there was a fear deep within her, that Michael was just a pawn in a greater game, one that she herself were no less a pawn in than him, though he held a much higher value. It gnawed at her that Satan was just using Michael and when his task was done, he’d be thrown to the wolves. 

She wouldn’t let it happen. 

Whatever happened she’d be by his side, they were bound together, a bond that his father would most likely have been against, at least that was what she thought. 

“When he needs you don’t abandon him, don’t disappoint him, don’t betray him. He deserves more than that.”

With no response from the devil himself, she turned around and walked up the stairs not noticing the flicker of a single lit flame that soon spread to all of them, only to be extinguished as if it never happened. 

Oya closed the door behind her, leaning against it. Michael was no longer sitting on the couch, the computer had been closed and long forgotten, replaced with a glass of cold water by the kitchen. Their eyes met, he lifted his brow in question, swallowing the last water before setting the glass on the counter and letting out a tired breath.

“What were you doing down there?” He asked. Oya pushed herself off the door and strutted towards him, folding her arms over her chest. 

She shrugged,“Got curious.” No more no less was said, he accepted her answer even if he knew it wasn't the whole truth. No longer did he pressure her to confess, not in small matters as this. “Are you coming back to bed?” She asked reaching him. Michael smirked at her outfit, taking the collar of the shirt she wore between his fingers with the belief that it would somehow feel different when she was the one wearing it. It didn’t but it looked nice, no one had ever worn his clothe before. Now his fingers traveled to her wild hair, taking a curl between his fingers and lightly tugged at it.

“Soon,” he drawled, brushing the strand behind her ear. “I still have some work to do.”

“It’s the middle of the night, work can wait,” she huffed, rubbing her eyes as sleep clinged to her, luring her towards the warm covers and silk sheets. She longed for bed, for the pillow that’d mess up her hair further or just with some luck detangle it. 

“Not this,” he said. Oya hummed at him, giving his hand a squeeze before turning. It wasn’t before she was about to disappear up the stairs she heard his voice again. “What were you dreaming of?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, calculating if she should tell him about the angel she saw, the flash of blond hair,  _ him _ . It was clear he had come far, that it was a point buried in the past but it was still hidden somewhere within him, it had to be. Just like her past were hidden within her. Their polished beauty hiding scars that would never heal, memories that’d never be forgotten and betrayal that wrapped around their hearts with barbed wire. 

“Nothing,” she said. “Memories, I guess. It’s nothing but a stupid nightmare.” 

“Nightmares can leave their marks.”

“Yes they can.” She send him a tired smile and headed towards the bed. Waking up from a nightmare that made you call directly to Satan himself left one tired and cold. She hid herself under the covers, a silk shield against the outside world, a warm hug lulling her to sleep. 

It was not much later before Michaels arms replaced the embrace of the covers. 

* * *

She sat on the edge of the freestanding fireplace, letting her fingers glide between the orange flames, licking at her skin. The pain was there, she felt her hand burn, she acknowledged it but didn’t allow it to affect her. The skin reddened, blistering and burning but she continued to let them lick at her, moving fingers back and forth. Then she’d heal while still in the fire, skin repairing and regenerating until it was smooth and fine. Then it started all over again. Her head rested against her knees, the dress around her from thin and see through, while her hair waved over her back and shoulders and by her toes on the mantel a half empty glass of red wine.

Obsidian eyes reflected the flames.

If she turned her head she’d see Michael resting against the couch that had been deemed entirely too uncomfortable a long time ago, with one leg crossed over another, papers and folders scattered over the cushions, while he inspected whatever the tablet held within his hand.

It often came to this, the two of them silent in each others company, doing each their own thing but still entirely aware of the other. Often times Michael’s mind were preoccupied by mountains of paperwork that pushed forward the end times, while she had been studying medicine, chemistry, botany and biology. Magic surging through the book of her choosing, picking up the words and writing themselves inside her mind to be kept forever. It was a way to prepare for the new world, even if the old one ended it’d be nice to know how to do heart surgery or how to make medicine, even if Michael deemed it unnecessary.

Most of all it was a way to keep herself busy, to fill the void that her anger and resentment towards her family had left within her. 

And then there were times like these, were a book couldn't capture her attention, where she was left staring into the flames while her mind silently wandered the planes of brain. 

“How did you come to be?” Her voice were silent, almost swallowed by the crackling fire, and still it found its way towards Michael, who looked over the tablet, his face lighted up by the screen and casting tired shadows on his face. He hummed at her, brows knitting together to tell her that he heard her voice but not her words.

Oya turned her head and rested it against her knees, hand finally coming out of the fire, scorched and blistering that soon turned to fine soft skin once more. “I mean, how did you… come to be?” She repeated not able to find other words. 

Now Michael’s full attention were on her, the tablet went out as he put it to the side, his face now dimly lit by the orange flames. The ghostly light was gone, replaced with an ancient one. “Why the sudden question?”

“I’m curious,” she answered quietly. “You didn’t just spring from the earth.”

For a moment there were a playful smile on his lips and then it was gone, replaced with something reminiscent, almost bitter. “My mother was human, my father… not so much. They call it an unholy union between human and spirit, life and death.” He went quiet.

Oya watched him, silently. She didn’t ask the questions that burned on her tongue, she didn’t push him, all she did was wait patiently to see if he’d be willing to give her more.

The pain was there, hidden in the cracks of his mask, lingering in the air around him. Most of all it showed itself in his eyes, blue and pierced with pain. No matter how far you get from your parents, no matter long ago things were, the pain would still be there, even if you hate them. 

“My mother died in childbirth joining the rest of spirits in the house. My grandmother raised me, or, she tried.” A tear slipped over the edge of his eye, falling down his cheek. Upon seeing this Oya carefully stood and walked over to him. She hitched up the thin fabric and straddled his lap, hands running over his shoulders in comfort. Michael’s hands ran up her outer thighs, dipping beneath the dress, to caress the hidden skin with his thumb, a way to ground himself. “Like everyone else she abandoned me,  _ hated me,  _ so much so she took her own life inside that house. She refused to see me.” Michael shook his head, voice vibrating in his throat. With a sympathetic touch, Oya brushed away his tears with her thumbs, her own face falling into a show of compassion. 

The dull, harrowing pain he felt within his chest, were something she recognized so well. It was branded upon his soul, a scar that’d never mend. Not even if you filled your life with light and love, not even if you surround yourself with it, that scar would never go away, never heal. 

The pain you’d get used to, however horrible that is. 

“Everyone I care about abandons me,” Michael said, giving her thighs a light squeeze. Oya’s head tilted to the side, her hands still cupping Michael’s head. There was no need to object, to fly into a temper to validate what she meant to him because the words were there, unspoken but very much true.  _ Everyone I care about I lose, everyone but you. _

“When I finally found someone who cared about me, treated me like a person, who loved me, she was taken from me.” A shadow fell over his face, embers lighting up in his eyes. The invisible tendrils sparked up, anger and resentment flowing through the energy, an unfulfilled vengeance. 

“Who?” She asked quietly, brushing away another tear from his cheek. Michael learned into her touch, closing his eyes and savoring her warmth. 

“ _ My Mrs. Mead _ . She was the only one who cared for me, she took me in when I needed it the most,” his voice were soft and hard, all at the same time. “But they took her from me, the witches.” 

“The New Orleans coven,” Oya finished. So that was what her mother was talking about, why she feared him and rightfully so. Taking out a coven was no easy feat if you were a mere warlock but he was no mere warlock. Witches had a tendency to come back from the dead. 

“I didn’t get all of them,” he licked his lips and scoffed at the memory. “The supreme got away along with some of the other witches.”

“I will find them, for what you did for me, I will tear through the world to find them,” her voice was clear as day and the intent even clearer. Her fingers brushed through his hair before they eventually caressed his cheeks once more.

“You can’t,” he breathed. “They’re gone.”

“They will be when the bombs drop,” she claimed with certainty. 

“I sure hope not, that’d be no way to exact revenge,” Michael said, fingers drawing circles and infinity signs into her skin with a burning touch she’d otherwise melt to. Instead she leaned back and raised a brow at him, hands falling to his chest. 

“Are you saying my way of revenge is not desirable?” There were both a playfulness and seriousness to her voice. Michael tilted his had the same way she had done, eyes matching hers. In the flicker of the flames behind her, his eyes were a darker contrast, his pupils swallowing up the deepend blue. 

“Your revenge,” he said and leaned towards her, breath rolling hot over her lips. “Were the most inspiring.”

“You just want your vengeance up close and personal,” she commented. He wanted something else, a different way of revenge she couldn’t help but admire even if she didn’t know of his plan. Her revenge were a punishment that’d only lead to their destruction, it was made to twist it’s way into their souls and punish them by showing what was waiting in the future, to know everything they’ve ever known or loved would be gone and they could do nothing about it. 

Oya pecked his lips, a quick chased kiss before he fell back against the cushions again. A pout formed on her face. “It’s too bad, I could do with some witch hunting now that my own vengeance have been taken, and you all too busy with ending the world.”

She pushed off of him, her butt hitting hard cushions and papers creaking beneath her weight, leaning against Michael and resting her head on his shoulder as she fished out the folder beneath her.  _ Outpost 5 _ it read in big black letters. “What is your plan for me in the sanctuary anyway?” 

Michael removed the folder from her hands and replaced it with a new one that read  _ Outpost 3 _ . Oya furrowed her brows in confusion. An outpost? But wasn’t she supposed to be in the sanctuary? He had mentioned it briefly before, that the sanctuary were for the chosen of the chosen. More specifically  _ his _ chosen. 

“Is this your way of telling me I didn’t make the cut?”

“No, it is me trusting you with a task,” he confided, his voice vibrating through his chest and into her body. Oya signed and leaned further back, opening the folder and began inspecting the content within while listening intently to what Michael said. “I don’t trust the management and would have you play part in finding out who among the people in outpost 3 is worthy of the sanctuary.”

“Why not make me the leader?” She asked and looked over the credentials for a Mrs. Venable. 

“I find you better at working in the shadows. I don’t want to pose a risk to your safety by being the leader.” 

“None of them would pose a risk to me, I’d snap my fingers and their necks would do the same.” Now she was looking through the safety procedures of the bunker. Some of them were basics while others were not so much. Regardless she didn’t question them and instead committed them to memory just like she had done the books.

When Michael didn’t comment or elaborate Oya twisted her head to look up at him. He looked calculating, as if there were something he wanted to say but didn’t know how to say it. Of course Michael couldn’t possibly possess this kind of uncertainty… There was something he wanted from her, something he was almost afraid to ask. This revelation made Oya push away from him to properly look upon his face.  

“What is it?”

His face fell into the meticulous mask he had created for himself, one that usually carried a confidence that made her weak in the knees. The uncertainty turned to certainty. “I want you wear sheep's clothing, or in this instance human clothing.”

Oya’s face fell, heart beating out of rhythm within her chest. No, he couldn’t possibly be asking that. “Are you… Are you asking me to have my powers bound?”

Michael cupped her face, thumb brushing over her newly released lip that had just been caught between her teeth. He looked as sincere as the devil, with the flicker of fire in his eyes and deepened shadows biting at his features. 

“I am asking you to bind your powers so that  _ no one _ would ever know how powerful you really are. I’m asking you to be my hidden card, my secret weapon, if I will need it.”

“With my powers bound I wouldn’t be able to-to heal myself if anything were to happen, or to protect myself. You’re asking me to expose myself  _ to humans _ , indecisive and vicious humans! For what? What do you expect to happen? This Mrs. Venable poses no threat to you!” Her words began calm but ended in exclamation, pulling herself out of his grip. Binding her powers, again and this time so well that’d leave no trace of magic at her disposal were quite possibly the scariest thing he could ever ask for. Crazy, he was fucking crazy to ask that. And yet, she owed it to him, for so many things. 

“I have someone else there that I trust, someone who will protect you, even if they don’t know why,” Michael assured with a voice filled with honey and sympathy. Oya eyed him with narrow and reluctant eyes. “You will be safe.”

“Why is it so important that I’d be in outpost 3?”

“Because there’s people I don’t trust there and you,” he said capturing her in his hands once more. She leaned into his touch. “I trust.” 

“You better fucking trust me, you leave me vulnerable in a pit full of snakes,” she said equally harsh as it was playful. Michael flashed her a beaming smile, taking her words as consent, then leaned back. Oya joined him, resting against his side once more, letting her head lean on his shoulder. 

“Then it’s a good thing you’re a snake charmer,” he commented. Oya couldn’t help but laugh shaking her head and rolling her eyes. 

“Snake charmer?!” She exclaimed. “You’re the one with the silver tongue, I’ll stick to the shadows, make myself tiny enough to inspire a sort of trust and if anyone tires anything I’m sure I can be creative enough to find a way to get rid of them.”

“Do not kill everyone before I arrive, there’s a reason they’re there.”

“When  _ will _ you arrive? Don’t leave me with the boring humans too long, otherwise I can’t promise you they won't all be dead when you do.”

She could hear the smile in his voice, that warm glow present. “3 months.” 

Oya felt her nerves show themselves as knots in her stomach. After the end there’d be no certainty, anything could happen. Without her powers she’d be vulnerable, if radiation got to her she’d be dead, if she was stabbed she’d be dead, if  _ anything _ happened and she couldn't reach her powers… All this just as she got them back. Michael had given her freedom and in return she had given him her heart, bound herself to him. Never had he asked such a thing, demanded it, she had given him it willingly. And now he asked this of her. 

In reality what he really asked was to trust him with her life. 

And she did, however ludacris it was. 

“Remember what I once told you?” She asked throwing the outpost 3 folder across the couch. “If you fuck me over I’ll make your life a hell, even as a bound goddess,  _ even as a human _ .”

“I believe those weren’t your exact words.”

“But the meaning is very much the same,” she said and turned her head towards him. Michael had found a folder and held it up with the one free hand he had, while she kept his other arm occupied as a pillow, nuzzling herself further into him. He smiled, the orange flames giving him the look as something ancient, devine. 

“ _ I trust you with my life, don’t make me regret it for we are bound you and I, that means something, regret will only root itself and bloom into dismay,” _ she mumbled in her native tongue, Michael looked down at her with his brows raised in question. Oya merely smiled and uttered; “You have your secrets and I have mine, maybe one day I’d let you in on them just as you might let me in on yours.”

For secrets he had enough of, it was sewn into his being, he had secrets at his seams, unspoken words carefully structured on his silver tongue never to be spoken, truths and lies spun so beautifully you’d never know which one you get, with every truth there’d be a little lie and in every lie there’s a truth. Michael was mystical, he never revealed himself completely and still she trusted him, adored him in a way that others would call blindly. 

Maybe one day she’d understand him fully, decipher him. Maybe not but she sure wanted to find out. Michael was an adventure in himself, he was a home, even if he wouldn’t label himself as such. She cared for him, deeply and she was beginning to show it unreserved. Maybe one day he’d do the same. 

Yes, Michael had secrets sewn into his seams, she didn’t understand his reasoning behind some of his plans, he never revealed the whole picture to her and still she’d stand with him through the end of the world and beyond. 

By the gods, she hoped he felt the same. 

  
  



	13. Voodoo of New Orleans

The Louisiana air was hot and damp, it made you sweat and wish for a cool breeze. Oya had always hated when the air was damp, hated the way it made clothes stick to skin, the way it curled up her back and collected as sweat at the nape of her neck. She walked through the french quarter, black long pants ending just as her black heels began, a white airy shirt to top off the look. In hand were her old scratched up leather bag, containing what was left of her supply of candles, herbs and stones. People glanced after her as she walked through the crowd of tourists much like it did in venice. 

It wasn’t before she reached a little shop called ‘sticks & stones’, its outside a faded green peeling off the wood, with big trimmed windows displaying all sorts of ‘magical’ things, most of which didn’t have any magical properties at all. Upon entering the air smelled of a mixture of dust and jasmine. The bell rang, alerting a newcomer had entered. 

Oya dropped her bag at the register to wander further into the store with empty hands. She turned her nose at ‘magical potions’ and ‘holy candle lights’. The energy flowed through the room in an easy rhythm brought on by the few magical items that were. 

“Can I help you with something?” 

“Do you have snake oil?” She asked still turned to the table filled with stones and crystals. Her hands hovered over them to see which one emitted the most energy and stopped when it came to a sapphire, she picked it up and continuing until she held moonstones, hematite, carnelian and orange calcite, all of which would help her perform the ritual she had in mind. 

“We do, is there anything else I can help you with?” the woman behind the front desk answered, turning to the many vials behind her. Her hair was beautifully braided, collected on top of her head and held together with golden pins. Around her body were various items for protection, love and stability, all in the fashion of bracelets worn all the way up her forearms, clicking together as she moved, and various necklaces around her neck. From her ears hung big golden hoops, as well a small one from her nose. They stood out against her darkened skin. If Oya didn’t know any better she’d have though her as a goddess blessed by the sun. But there was no magic in her blood, no more than all other humans. 

“Your warding is off,” Oya commented rummaging through bagged herbs to find the ones she needed. The owner went silent, she could feel her eyes on her as she turned with some of the essentials she held, dropping them off at the register. “You should strengthen it, it won’t keep out evil spirits as it is.”

“What do you know about it?” Aisha, or so the necklace told, asked. The woman’s defences went up, her eyes studying Oya with interest and mild annoyance. Oya paid no mind to it and turned around to go through the aiels. 

Most of the things sold were more souvenirs than anything else. Various masks with empty eyes glared at her, the crystal and stone skulls reminding of the inevitability of death, for some. A box was filled with voodoo dolls, best sellers from the look of it, from the ceiling hung dried herbs, blessings and curses with no magic bound to most of them, rosemary's and crosses. The store was a mix of cultures and mythologies but the most prominent was the voodoo aspect, as it should be for New Orleans. It is after all were witches sprung from once upon a time. 

“I know a thing or two of warding. Do you have Balm of Gilead? Dragon’s blood? or maybe some pinto beans?” Oya asked, eyes running over the pendulums with various cut stones at the end. She already had one, it was old and not nearly as pretty but it was good and stayed true to what she needed it to do. Instead she picked up a bunch of candle lights, filling her arms with them before returning to the counter and the woman behind it. She gave her a soft smile.

“Is it okay the Dragon’s blood is a oil? The rest we have in solid form,” Aisha said, scuffing over the creaking floor to get what she asked. 

“What do you know of the New Orleans coven?” Oya asked, dropping off the candles and continued to venture through the small store. 

“Coven? You mean Miss Robichaux’s Academy?” A deep frown settled upon her face as she returned with the herbs, neatly packed in a fine paper and a bag. The wariness electrified the air, tension settling in her shoulders. Although she was young, something told Oya she was an old soul, one that had seen loss. “It closed down a year ago when the girls inside got massacred. The house remains closed off after that…”

“Do they know what happened?” 

“...No, they never caught the ones who did it but the guess is, is that it’s a hate crime,” Aisha answered almost hesitantly. “What ritual are you planning to do with this?”

Oya shrugged and began putting the things on the counter in her bag with all her other things. The candles were by far the heaviest item but the bowls took up more space, still the bag was big enough to fit in a lot more. “It’s for scrying. I want to see what happened so that I can find the survivors.”

“You shouldn’t go there, they say the place is cursed,” she warned, pushing forth the bag with herbs, letting Oya take them with a soft smile. “They say the place is haunted by the witches who died there.”

“I’m sure that if they were ghost they’d have returned from the grave already,” Oya said, rummaging through the bag. “Witches tend to do that.”

“Who are you? Things like that you should leave alone, the darkness there you should leave alone. Spirits and necromancy you should leave alone.”

Oya looked straight at the woman in front of her. It was obvious that Aisha believed in energy, in herbal properties, in what her shop carried weather it was magical or not, but the notion of scrying into the past seemed too far fetched. Or just maybe she was worried that a client of hers would encounter whatever she believed to be at the academy. “You wouldn’t know me, my name has long been lost.” 

“I’m warning you, don’t go there, don’t be white people stupid, there are spirits there, bad juju that should be left alone. My sister went there and she said the place was filled with bad energy, not even Marie Laveau would set foot in there, god rest her soul.” Aisha seemed desperate to keep Oya away, it was cute in a way, how humans can worry about another person they have just met. A smile widened on her lips trying to invoke a sort of trust with that woman, she was after all just worried on her behalf. 

“Thank you for your concern,” Oya began, pushing a gold coin over the table, one of the ancient coins she acquired for her work years ago when they were used. It was the only money she had, this new from of currency in the form of a plastic card remained untouched by her, mostly because she never needed one. “but I’m far more capable than you think. I won’t be, what did you call it, ‘white people stupid’?”

“I tried to warn you,” Aisha muttered under her breath. “Don’t go blaming me when you end up dead.”

Oya took the bag and turned to walk out the door but stopped when Aisha called after her in an angry tone, her brows know knitted together in fury rather than worry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You gotta pay for that!”

Confused Oya nodded towards the coin on the desk. “I did. It’s worth more than these items are worth.”

“I can’t take this,” Aish yelled, picking up the coin and waving it through the air. “What the hell, lady! I don’t even know what this is!”

“It’s a gold coin from early mesopotamia,” Oya answered with a huff, dropping the bag to the ground and walking back to the register. Maybe it’d be best to remove the memory of this in case the coven doubles back and senses her energy there, they might find a way here and she did prefer to remain in the shadows. Letting out a breath, Oya unfolded her energy, letting it wrap around the woman who stilled in trance. She reached over the counter, softly placing her fingertips at the temple, her suntouched skin standing out against the smooth dark skin of Aisha’s. Small electric tethers sprung from the touch, searching through her mind to wrap around the memory. Ever so slowly Oya pulled her fingers from the temple to hold them in front of her. Small silver pedals bloomed against the skin of her fingers, only visible to the eye of those who possess excessive magical properties.

“What are you holding?” Aisha asked quietly, eyes glossed over in trance. 

“I’m holding your memory of this, for your protection and mine. It’s a small thing, the memory. When pulled from the brain it’s a fully blossomed flower, silver pedals so fine you can see through them. They don't wither, instead they fold in on themselves as if it’s blooming in reverse until it’s a small fine pearl. There are many ways to do this but this by far is the most beautiful,” Oya answered with fascination of the pearl now formed between her fingertips. “You can keep the coin, it’ll bring you great fortune and though it will not save you from the future it will make your present more fun.” She turned, letting the pearl be hidden by softly cut moonstones the size of the coin she had just parted with, pushing it to the bottom. She had no use for that memory, keeping it with her would be a waste. Some things are better hidden in plain sight. Oya withdrew her energies on her way out of the store.  

Finding Miss Robichaux’s Academy would prove easier that she thought, the place famous for coming out as witches, the only school for witchcraft in the world, or rather, the only school known for it. It was famous for that and infamous for the tragedy that happened within its walls.  

The house stood tall and proud with its columns and white walls standing out against the green bushes surrounding the premise and the dark spiked fence that caged it all in. From the outside it looked like the rest of the houses on the street, expensive and upper class, with the common Louisiana air surrounding it. Behind her the taxi speed away, leaving her alone on the pavement overlooking it with an wary eye. 

Sweat beaded on her neck, it made the white shirt stick to her back uncomfortably. Hair stuck to her skin, the ponytail proving to not help against the humid air. Her eyes landed on the gate in front of her, on the chains and padlock wrapped around the bars to keep people from entering. With a fick on her wrist the padlock sprung open and fell to the ground with the sound of scuffing metal following it the way down and continuing after it had stopped by the chains following in its path. The gate opened with a loud groan, the mental complaining. 

With one single step over the barrier the air changed as if all the oxygen had been pulled out and replaced with a void. It seemed stale, with no mention of life, no vibrance at the presence of magic. It crept along her spine and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand in spite of being stuck to her skin. 

Oya passed over the fine stone path, the grass withered and overgrown, reaching towards the sky in the hope of a drop of water. She neared the porch, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet, groaning at her weight. 

In front of her were the reminands of a voodoo ritual for breaching a barrier of protection, a bowl with the contents rotting away, traces of ash and blood on the dark wood. It was a spark of magic, nothing more, a faint rippel overshadowed by the empty void that lingered in the air. 

With a sigh she hitched the bag up to get a better grip of it, her palms sweaty and unable to keep a proper hold of the heavy thing. The door opened screaming to the sky for oil on it’s hinges and it screamed again as it closed behind her. Inside the house the void became more apparent and for a moment it took her breath away. The air inside was a complete contrast of the outside, it was cold and dry, small specks of dust gleaming through the rays of light that slipped in between the skotters. It smelled dusty and illventilated, and of course it would, there had been no one here since the investigation wrapped up. Everything was covered in a fine layer of white dust. With each step she took she made footprints over the hardwood floor. 

She followed her instinct that lead her to what would have been the dining hall, with a long table placed in the middle of the room, a white ghosty cover thrown on top of it in an attempt to keep the dust from settling on its surface. Though by the look of it, the surface would already have been ruined. Around the floor chairs was scattered, some tipped over while others were forced to the corners furthest from the table. 

Traces of blood lingered on the wood speaking of the tragedy that happened within its blood splattered walls, with white chalk lines were drawn around where the body would have been. 

She took a step into the room and felt something beneath her shoe. It was an old nail, it’s tip bloodied. Not far from it were the remains of aquamarine and shell casings. There should have been energy knitting in the air, magic reminands remaining in a place like this, there should have been  _ something _ . But the void hollowed it out, carved into the seams of energy and killing them before they formed. Where there had been life there should be embers left of it, fragments of it, especially with so many witches. 

Oya dumped the bag on top of the table, opening it up and placing the content in the open. Everything was placed neatly and in order, the black candles standing out against the white, the dark ceramic bowl a circle and the herbs and stones placed neatly and ready for usage. 

Instead of beginning the ritual something drew her attention. She followed it up the stairs, past the blood stain on the floor and through the ghostly halls. A mixture of her own herbs burned as sage in her hand, the white smoke dancing in ever changing patterns in front of her. She passed through a door and into one of many bedrooms. It was faint, the fragment of magic, but it was there. 

Upon entering further into the room she noticed the burns in the floor. It wasn’t the fragment she was looking for but it did speak of powerful magic. Her incense filled the room with a varied smell of burning herbs, it continued to fill the room with smoke when she put it down on the bedside table, she caught onto remnant.

“Papa Legba,” she mused in thought. 

A shadow passed over the walls, followed by a dark laugh. Magic filled the air, electrified it and tickled over her skin. One moment she had been alone the next she was joined by a powerful presence. 

“It is not every a goddess speaks my name,” a dark voice with heavy accent spoke, each word formed a particular way she could not place. Oya turned and watched the dark shadow’s owner, a black man who wore white warpaint that framed in his red eyes. Dreads draped over the shoulders of his tux jacket, underneath a white shirt ruffled up. Power emminated off of him in surges. She raised a brow at him, eyes watching with caution as he took a seat, placing both hands on top of his cane. 

“Papa Legba?” She asked, taking a seat on the bed. Whatever he came here for it was not to harm her. Though his power was dominant and mighty, her own reached just as wide as his, if not more. 

“That is my name,” he smile an alligator smile. A demigod like him didn’t fit into the frame of the Robichaux witches, none of the practiced voodoo or any variation of that. It was more likely that any voodoo practitioner in the french quarter would call for him than these witches and still, somehow, they knew of him, had called him. 

“Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, mon cheri,” he answered. Something about him made her heart speed up, not that she’d let it show. “I was down in hell when I heard your voice speak my name and I just had to see if the rumors were true.”

“Rumors?”

“The goddess of the underworld is back,” he answered and offered another smile, red eyes gleaming. “What is you doing here, child?”

“I wanted to see if I could find the witches,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. Papa Legba laughed, the sound carrying itself up the walls, booming through the room with a dark base. “You’ve had dealings with them, why else would your reminands be here?”

Papa remained silent, watching her with eyes of a predator. He reminded her of an alligator, its eyes shining through the dark of night, revealing the presence of strong jaws and endless teeth. But he also felt strangely familiar, not in the way that they knew each other but in the way they stood equal, a goddess of a forgotten religion that gave birth to the one that would overshadow it and the other a demigod of a religion just as forgotten, with myth being the only thing to carry the tales of him. 

“Do you know where the witches are?”

“An answer like that demands a steep price,” he spoke.

“Tell me the price and I’ll pay,” she exclaimed quickly, cutting Papa Legba off from continuing. He grinned at her, not minding her sudden outburst but rather finding it entertaining. 

“An answer like that demands a steep price,” he repeated, “If only I knew the answer. I do not know where the witches has gone, they have hidden themselves and are beyond my reach.” 

She wrinkled her nose, letting out a sigh at the setback. She should have known, in a way she did, the expectations to find something not even the devil himself could were highly unlikely. Michael had told her they were gone, finding them were unlikely but when he had told her he were to attend a meeting, she took the opportunity to travel to Louisiana to see for herself.  

And maybe it was just not for seeking the witches, but to see what she was up against. 

“It can’t only be out of curiosity you come here,” Oya said with suspicion laced in her voice. 

“Why not?” He questioned, tilting his head a little. The necklaces he wore sounded off, bones clicking into each other. If he were an alligator she was a serpent. 

“You said there were rumors of me,” she continued, dismissing his question for one of her own. “What rumors?”

“The queen of the underworld walks upon the earth once more, no longer bound,” he answered her. His accent turned most ‘t’s into ‘d’s, shaped off the words into something softer and yet clear. “You kingdom awaits you. It may be smaller than what the previous queen had but it is still there.”

“My kingdom can wait, I still have much to do here.” 

“Mmm, with the antichrist,” Papa hummed at her, leaning back in the chair that groaned beneath his weight. “Your kingdom will not grow if he is the one to end this world.”

A frown formed on her face, brows knitted together in question. “What do you mean?”

“You do not know?” Now it was his turn to be surprised, or rather act like it. Something about him told her that he knew things she’d never know, a keeper of secrets, one who saw the strings and knew where they lead. She supposed he should, being who he was. “Every life you take, child, brings their soul to  _ your _ kingdom.”

It took a moment of confusion until it dawned on her. “If the world is whipped out by the bombs the souls would either go to heaven or hell and my kingdom, the underworld, will never grow.”

“For it was not you who took their life,” Papa finished. Oya mused over it, biting her lip in thought. 

“What of you? Do you have a kingdom?”

“I am but a demigod. I stand between this world and hell. No, I do not have a kingdom…” he answered her. He did not have a kingdom but he had many souls beneath him, many helpers, soldiers, whatever he needed. Satan gave him orders, he was the boss of hell, but that didn’t mean Papa didn’t have any power down there. Not at all. 

She suppose that’s what would happen if she didn’t claim her throne, if her kingdom dwindled in to nothing, that she’d take up as a part of hell, be a glorified crossroad demon. As other religions fell, so did their worlds. If Oya hadn’t been born with the blood of Ereshkigal, if she hadn’t been reborn with her soul, her underworld would have succumb to hell. 

Maybe that was why her powers lashed out, to make a mark, however little it was, that it should still remain. She killed thousands and now their souls were hers. 

She killed her mother.

“My kingdom may not grow in the underworld, Papa, but it will grow in this world,” She voiced with confidence. Papa smirked at her, no more and no less. 

“The antichrist would give you a crown?” He questioned and lifted his cane only to immediately drop it to the floor with a click. “Would call you his queen?” Click. “Will see you as equal?” Click.

“Yes,” Oya said and stood. “If he give less than I deserve he will pay.”

“I am sure he will,” Papa said, watching her movements. Oya passed through the room, towards the door. There was nothing left to be said, Papa had planted his words and seen them cropped when they set root. Oya was confident in her stance with Michael, confident in his words. 

“Goodbye, Papa Legba,” She said, turning to look over her shoulder as she had reached the door. Legba remained seated, sending her an alligator smile, eyes red and gleaming. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Cheri,” His voice were soft. Papa drew in a breath as she stood, his shadow passing over the walls in an unnatural way, a faint sound of hissing seemingly coming out of nowhere. “I hope to see you again soon and with crown this time.” 

Papa disappeared in front of her eyes, taking his shadow and the hissing with him. It was in the moment of farewell Oya realised everything had been spoken in korean, in her native tongue, it left a strange knot where her heart was. 

In the air lingered his presence, the touch of his magic, ancient and otherworldly. Oya closed the door after her, passing through the halls as silently she could with her heels clicking against the floor. 

As she came into the dining hall all the candles lit up, casting a warm glow through the empty house, lights and shadows dancing on the white walls. In the chermetic bowl she placed the herbs she had purchased, pouting snake oil over the dried up content. In the bowl she crushed bone of a goat, then added an oil she herself had made, one to open up the mind. Oya ran two finger through the sticky content, lifting them to her eyes and drawing circles around her eyes.The mixture was then crushed together into a liquid, one that’d make a person's stomach turn by the smell of it, even more so when she put it to flame. 

Blue flames licked the air, slowly dissipating into heavy smoke than poured over the sides of the bowl, fell thickly onto the table to its edge and then to the floor. Soon the entire room was covered in white smog so thick the dark hardwood floor was gone. Oya spoke in tongues, words long forgotten forming on her lips to be send out into the room. She held her hands over the bowl, swaying back and forth to tempt the past to come forth. Her magic filled the room, every cavity that had been left. A sudden jitter went through her and when she opened her eyes once more, they had gone completely white. 

The room became fully lit, no longer were the light withheld by shutters, the white covers gone so that she could fully see the antique table. Nails and stones were scattered over the wood, scratching up its surface in an unholy way. At the end of the table opposite her were a woman, hair grey and pinned up, her skin wrinkles and covered in wounds. A girl cried to her side, clawing her way over the floor only to be stopped by a bullet coming from a black cladded woman, a woman whose face she didn't recognize nor did she care to look properly. Instead her eyes turned to Michael, passing through the room with his hands folded behind his back, hair a shorter halo that what she was used to. He stepped over the bodies of the witches as if they were nothing more than mere obstacles. Michael turned towards her, his tongue behind his lip as he inspected the death around him. 

She watched as a girl ran through the opened doors and up the stairs, a bullet painting her white shirt red, then another to bring her down. Oya’s heart raced, death clung to the air, filled it with a cold touch, skellet fingers trailing up her spine. Death was something, it was of substance while the void she had felt were nothing. Death clawed at the wooden floors, painting the world in red, life snuffed from a full fire ablaze to embers. Embers were still something. 

One moment the room was full of light, of red, of death and then the next it was dark, the moon casting a ghostly light into the room. Oya watched as a blond woman, cheeks stained with sorrow, lips quivering with pain, walk through the room. Her hands shook. When she saw one of the witches on the floor she fell to her knees with a cry that cut through the air. 

Oya neared her, feeling how death had left the room, replaced with the vast void of nothing. All embers of life were gone, snuffed out. It was as if Michael had poured water over life's fire until even the embers, the smallest traces of life, were gone completely. There were nothing in these bodies, no tether for the soul to find its way back to, no fragments of life or traces of the soul. There were nothing. 

It clung to her, strained Oya’s breath as fear flared up in her chest. She gripped one of the chairs to hold herself  up, but found her hand went through it. Oya fell to her knees beside the only life within the house. The woman leaned down trying to breathe life back into the younger witch, to no avail. Her breath were mere air, no magic could bring back what no longer existed. She tried desperately, choking out cries when nothing happened. 

Whatever Michael had done it was permanent. He had taken their life and extinguished their souls. There were nothing left of them, nothing for heaven and nothing for hell. Just nothing. It reminded her of the Inbetween, the vast empty but there was a difference, the Inbetween was  _ something _ . 

Oya found herself kneeling on the floor, hands gripping at the wood but hidden by the white smog. Slowly it began to lift, what was hidden beneath revealed. White floors stained by blood. It took a while to compose herself enough to stand and when she did, she gripped the table and used it as clutch while her mind spun. 

The vision had told her nothing of where the witches were but it did reveal a fearsome truth. Michael had the ability to erase someone completely. What she feared wasn’t Michael nor really his intent with the ability but rather the erasement itself. The trust she held him didn’t waver. 

But she did feel a twig of sympathy for the mourning witch. To see her loved ones gone, erased from every world. It was nothing but a mere afterthought, the witches had caused far greater pain, to her they were no allie nor anything resembling a friend. Witches were the ones that bound her, they were the one who conspired so much pain and agony, they saw themselves as inherently good, just like they thought their magic were. But magic were neither good or bad, it was not light or dark, magic was neutral in every way, it was the intent behind them that painted them one way or another. 

With a sigh she pushed away the bowl and found another one, placing the same herbs and ingredients as the one she had done at home. If the witches were to come back she’d know. 

It was the last thing she did before leaving, now with a lighter bag. 

  
  
  
  



	14. Reap what you sow

Dusk painted the sky a brilliant pink, the clouds turning a violet hue while the sun sank below the horizon of dark trees and colorful lake. Soft whispers filled the air around her, her stomach turning in strange knots, her skin feeling cold and electric. The whispers spoke in a language she didn’t know, they seemed to tie silver strings around her being, guiding her towards where they were spoken aloud. It happened one moment, they started to speak at her out of nowhere, pulling at her heart and soul. It felt like power, like being put on a pedestal, it made her heart drum within her chest, rapid as a hummingbird. It made her feel anxious. 

“Michael,” she spoke gently to the man leaning against the kitchen island taking a bite of an apple while reading something on the tablet. He didn’t hear her, didn’t notice the shift in the air around her. 

“Michael,” Oya repeated louder, looking over her shoulder while she wrapped her arms around her form. Blue eyes looked up, dumping the tablet on the counter, apple placed beside it. His brow raised at her voice, eyes reading over her form, looking through the veil of anxiety that had wrapped around her. Did he feel it to? The pull, the need to go  _ somewhere _ unknown? Did he hear the whispers? 

Though worry worked its way upon his face, there were no sign of him hearing what she did nor feeling the pull. He walked to her, the warmth radiating off of him but not enough to engulf the cold touch that had fallen on her skin. When he placed his hand on her arm his touch was scorching and to him she was freezing. 

“Something is happening,” she said looking towards the trees. It almost hurt remaining there, not letting the voices guide her, let the strings decide her movements and beckon her forward. It itched in her and put her on edge. 

“What?” Michael asked, his voice soft as velvet and warm in a way that was hard to describe. 

“I don’t… I’m not sure,” she managed to speak, stepping away from his touch to place her palm against the cold window. “Something is pulling at me and I feel like I have to follow it.”

Michael came up behind her again, placing a soft kiss on her shoulder, the touch burning through the fabric of her long sleeved dress. “ _ Then follow it, I’ll be right behind you _ .” 

With Michael severing the last strings that kept her in place Oya was guided forth on a wave of relief, the air electric around her form. One moment she was inside, the next there was grass beneath her bare feet, wind taking hold of the fabric of her dress, dancing with her hair, while she moved over the lawn. In this time between night and day dew had formed on the grass, wet and cold under her feet. Grass turned to fallen leaves and twigs as she entered the forest. 

Though there were no path to be seen it was somehow still clear to her, where to step, where to turn, letting her body move through the space appearing further and further into the forest. With each move closer to the clearing the voices grew but the words were still indistinctive. 

Oya appeared half way through the clearing and stopped. In front of her were a figure kneeling down in front of what looked like an alter with a statue of a woman with snakes climbing up her legs and a crow on her shoulder. Candle lights flickered in the wind that carried a sent of burned herbs, an offering. The form moved, standing in one swift motion letting a shawl fall from their head to pool in the grass. For a moment ice ran through her veins when the blond hair got tousled up in the wind, recognizing her sister instantly. 

And that is when it happened, in an instant she heard Michael let out a guttural groan that split open the clearing. She felt ties wrap around her form in an effort of constrain her. The rest of the coven had appeared in hooded figures holding flickering candles in a circle around them. Oya looked around, her head spinning and heart violently beating. 

Michael had fallen to his knees, looking down at the tip of the knife grimly sticking out of his chest coated in blood. One of the hooded figures stood behind him keeping a hold on the shaft that was buried to the hilt in Michaels back. Every time Michael moved or drew his breath the knife was twisted. It kept him in place while they wrapped ties around his tendrils to keep him from lashing out, if only just while their Supreme took care of her sister. 

“Do you have any idea how many you’re killing?” Oya hissed, trying to twist herself loose from the covens hold on her powers. 

“Acceptable losses for how many we’ll save on a greater scale,” Ina spoke calmly. Cold fingers wrapped around her skin, drawing shivers down her spine and making the hair stand throughout her body. She felt breathless, finding that the oxygen surrounding her were not enough. 

Ina walked slowly towards her sister, the wind pick up strands of her hair and her dusty blue dress ruffled. There were purpose in her walk, her head held high and back straight, the air of elegance around her, elegance and anger. “First I lost my sister, then I lost my father and now you killed the only one I had left. Did you think we’d just let you go? That we’d just roll over?”

Michael groaned from behind Oya, his hands clenched in fists at this side, blood running down his white shirt ruined by the stain. His breaths were strained, hollow and raspy, it made Oya twist her head to look at him. The blade must have pierced his lunge, made it fill with blood that would make its way up the windpipes in a painful manner. She wanted to rip herself lose from the spot she had been nailed to, not caring if she’d be wounded herself as long as she could make it to him, ease the pain. 

Instead she turned towards her sisters voice, the fear clutching at her heart and hollowing out her bones to make itself home there. “I believed the fear of killing thousands would be punishment enough, that you’d spend this time with your loved ones as the world runs towards its end with open arms. Call it generosity.”

“Generosity was when we left you on a nice little plot of land, with a house and a well and an agreement with the village to bring supplies. Generosity was when we left you with traces of your power.  _ Generosity, sister, was when we gave you more than what you deserved because we loved you.” _ The anger made itself known in her voice, drawing out a storm that formed itself on her lips. Crystal blue eyes remained cold as ice, they pierced through Oya painfully in a way that reminded her of needles picking over her skin. Ina’s power was vast, like a Supremes should be, but it was also limited. 

Ina’s eyes left Oya for the first time, falling upon Michael’s hunched over form with slight enjoyment at his pain. “He’ll bring forth the end times, we cannot have that, we will not allow that.” 

“There’s nothing you can do to stop it,” Oya hissed at her sister, face in a sneer, with teeth bared and ready to sink into her enemies soft flesh. It was never a good decision to corner a predator, let alone one with sharp poisonous teeth and razor claws. The ties seared around her powers, burned like melted metal on skin. It was dreadful and agonizing. 

“We’re going to make it as painful as it could possibly be,” Ina voiced and smiled, maybe her goal wasn’t saving the world, maybe it was the simplest and purest of things, revenge. The thought crossed her mind but quickly evaporated when Ina continued to speak. “You’ve made it so easy for us, binding yourself to  _ him, the antichrist _ .”

There was a viciousness to her sister she had never seen before. One that was created by her own hand just like hers was by theirs. To Ina their mother had been the world, she had been her guardian, her guide,  _ a mother _ whose love was not limited and restricted but rather overflowing. As long as Oya had spend imprisoned Ina had spend with their mother. Losing her was what broke the fine porcelain that was her and from the broken shards a need for vengeance formed.

That was where she was different from her sister, instead of remaining in broken shards laced with vengeance, Oya had turned to stone, to metal, to something else, stronger. 

“I’ll correct the mistake of showing you mercy and atone for our sins,” Ina spoke, brushing a piece of hair out of Oya’s face with a strange softness, to cup her cheek. Ina’s hand burned against Oya’s cold skin. “You were my sister and I loved you, truly. It was my biggest mistake. I should have led her do this but I couldn’t.”

“Do what?” Oya breathed, feeling her fingertips tingle strangely as if the blood in her veins didn't quite reach them. 

Ina smiled cynically. “We can’t kill him, not really. He will just return again and again.” Her eyes went to Michael, two angelite eyes connecting, both looking at the other with a piercing coldness, with hatred and something deeper than just annoyance. Blood was not ebbing down his chin from his mouth, staining his soft and pale skin crimson. Michael looked angry rather than fearful, opposite of what showed on Oya’s face. 

“But we can kill this body of his,” she mused with a soft smile on her lips. “And you,” Ina took hold of her sisters shoulders, thin fingers wrapping around flesh with burning force, rilling up her heart to beat out of rhythm. “we’ll send somewhere far away, to a cave, to a hole in the ground, to a fucking underground pocket of air. He will lose you and you will lose him and because of your bound souls it’s gonna hurt like nothing ever has before.”

Oya’s bottom lip quivered, her shoulders shook under her sisters touch, body aching from the hold on her powers. The more her sister spoke the bigger the fire within her chest grew. 

“He’ll never find you,” she whispered gently and let go, stepping back until there was a considerable distance between them. The air was crisp and biting, filled with anticipation. Above the sky turned dark grey, the sun's last rays shining over the top of the darkened trees before disappearing completely. In the newfound darkness Ina looked more like a ghost than a woman, with a haunting beauty and pained expressive eyes. 

“You’d live forever alone, in a place with no comfort and with the constant agony of losing your counterpart,” her voice came out smooth and icy. “And  _ he _ will do the same.” Ina nodded towards Michael who let out a harrowing scream, the knife twisting into his flesh. She felt him, how his powers were tied down just as hers, how they tugged at their restraints in an attempt to free himself. She could see the fury in him, almost feel it radiating off of him, how he wanted nothing more than to tear them from limb to limb one at the time. 

He screamed once more as the knife was pulled out and planted deep within his chest again, the blade fearing through fabric and flesh all the same. 

“You will not fucking touch him!” Oya screamed, the searing hot anger she was feeling grow within her chest erupting out of her. It was like a dormant volcano that finally awoke from its slumber. She felt the invisible tethers wrapped around her snap once by one and with each her power grew, vibrating over her skin and warming her up from the cold state she was in. 

With each tether that snapped a candle went out, their long flame no longer casting shadows through the clearing. Panic filled the air seeping out of the pores of the coven members while they alarmingly began chanting once more trying to put new tethers on her form. The panic didn’t quite reach her sister and Oya wasn’t sure if she was brave or stupid. 

“You can fight all you want, sweet sister, but he will be your destruction.”

“You keep saying that but has it ever occured to you that  _ maybe _ ,” she stepped forward, feeling the constraints that was still wrapped around her strain. “ _ I will be his destruction _ ?”

Ina’s power grew in the wake of her sisters, two titans readying for battle. “So you shall.” 

Though it was not to be seen their tendrils collided, wrestling for the victory. It made the wind bend to their desire whirling in a circle around all of them, tossing up dirt and fallen leaves. It was the start of a tornado, one fueled by the two fighting, one made to destroy the other. The air was filled with electricity, knitting between the molecules and almost causing the atmosphere to light up with lightening. 

Thought power like this was neutral, it was the intent behind them that coloured them good or evil, in Ina’s eyes, in her place, her sisters power was dark, it was cruel and evil and it had to be stopped at any cost. It was a price she’d soon find out she’d have to pay. 

For while Ina was powerful she didn’t have the blood of a goddess running through her veins, with each step Oya took a tether broke and her power grew. It forced Ina to step backwards, to put distance between them, while her face fell victim to shadows that only enhanced the growing worry. 

Trees surrounding the clearing began to break, the wood exploding into millions of pieces flying through the air only to stop a hoover as if time had been stopped. 

Oya felt her powers surge through her, it felt absolutely fantastic, like she could breath for the first time. More trees fell victim to her, the sound of them exploding and falling to the ground with a haunting whoosh. She concentrated her powers, turning them towards the coven members.

“I gave you a chance at mercy and this is what you do with it?” The first coven member exploded like the trees had done. “Now it’s my turn to fucking talk.” Another member exploded causing wide panic that showed itself through screaming and scrambling away. They couldn’t come far though trapped by the wind whirl circling them in. “The end is already set, there is nothing you can do to change it, you of all of them must have realised this.” 

The shift in Ina’s eyes told her everything, that this wasn’t done to simply save the world but in vengeance. She wanted to make her pay by stripping Oya of her powers and send her far away to a place she’d never see the light of day and know that Michael, the only one she had, would have to fight his way back from death and then to live a painful existence in search for her. 

“Do you know what happens to the ones who die by my magic?” She asked. Another coven member exploded into guts and pieces. The air smelled of cobber. “They end in the underworld,  _ in my underworld _ . All of those who die because of this, because of you and your coven, they will not go to heaven even if they were destined to go there.” Something broke behind Ina’s mask, her eyes watering up at the realisation that she had doomed good people, people who would have had more time with those they loved. The next coven member exploded into a mist of crimson that landed as droplets upon her skin. “I will make sure you face each and every one of them, you have to explain to them why they died and why they’re where they are. You,  _ sweet sister _ , have to tell them that you doomed them to misery because of vengeance, not because you expected to save the world. This was a suicide mission from the start.”

Screaming they went to their deaths, becoming nothing more than bone and flesh and blood upon the grass, a mist of red spraying over Oya’s skin and painting her red. Death lingered in the air thick enough to be cut through. With each step she took she came closer to her sister. By the time she was in front of her, dark and crimson against light and blue, Oya was all but dripping with blood. The coven member that had wielded the knife exploded behind Michael, his bits and pieces spilling over Michael’s hunched form. 

“Do you know of the story of Inanna’s descent into hell?” Oya brushed a blond piece of hair out of her sisters face, her touch leaving a bloody stain on her pale skin. “ When Ereshkigal ascended the throne of the underworld her baby sister sees how powerful she had become and decides that she’d want to extend her powers there too, so she travels to the gates of the underworld.” Water spilled over the edge of her sisters eyes, traveling down her skin and dripping from her chin. “Ereshkigal knew of this and sought to bold each gate so that Inanna couldn’t get through unless she shed a piece of clothing. After passing through the seven gates Inanna was naked and powerless standing before the throne of the goddess Ereshkigal, there she was judged and found guilty. Do you know what happened to her?”

“She was struck dead and hung on a hook for the underworld to see,” Ina finished. A defiance flared up in her, the spite something Oya knew of very well. “But she was also brought back to life and freed.”

“A thing that will not happen to you,” Oya responded coldly. Tears climbed up Ina’s arms and legs, skin breaking apart and clearing the way for blood to spill out. Pain bloomed on her face like the flowers of spring, though it was all the more sinister and cruel. 

Oya’s eyes turned red, shadows forming on her face that made her look like a haunting goddess of death, like something entirely ancient. 

“You fool yourself, sister, if you think he loves you,” Ina commented, blood pouring out of her mouth while the cracks of her skin climbed up her body, up her neck, over her face. “He cannot love. You will come to know this.”

“And you will come to know you’re wrong, like you’ve always been,” Oya said and let her powers tear the soul out of her sister. Blond hair stained with blood turned black as ink, her pupils exploding into blue and white before the blue also fell victim to the black. One last breath left her, light as a feather and barely noticeable. 

With a thud her sisters body fell to the ground, porcelain skin broken apart with blood spilling from the cracks. The grass was painted a dark crimson, human remains scattered across the clearing. The wood that was frozen in time was released from its hold, joining the remains on the grass while thick trunks came crashing down taking everything with it in its path to the ground. 

Oya remained there, out of breath and clutching her dress with sticky fingers. Her powers had been exserted, leaving only the tiniest whisper of its greatness behind. The fear that had hollowed out her bones and made home there was replaced with an exhaustion that words could not tell of. Her whole body ached, pulsated like an open wound. 

And then she heard him, the gugal sound of his breath drawing her attention from what was before her, what was brewing up a storm in her mind and turning it towards him. 

Without a second though she turned and ran to Michael, falling to her knees beside him and took his face in her hands forcing his blue eyes to hers. “Michael! Michael!” 

With her mind racing so fast that no proper thought would stick and no logical sense was left, she grabbed Michaels ruined clothes tightly, holding him to her as she focused the whispers of the power that coursed through her blood to move them from the clearing and into her bathroom. 

Nothing, she couldn’t grasp the little power that was left. Panicked she held Michael’s face between her hands, thumb brushing lovingly over the red painted skin. “M-Michael, can you move us to my bathroom?” 

Michael nodded, extending his powers with a feverish touch that set the bodies spread across the clearing aflame just before wrapping them both in his tendrils and moving them out of the cold and into the warm familiar setting of Oya’s bathroom. In an attempt to get the knife out of his back Michael twisted and found that it was too far from his grasp, instead he tried to calm Oya, shushing her and brushing her hair out of her face. 

“Oya-Oya look at me,” Michael spoke with soft but raspy voice. “The knife in my back.”

She understood immediately, cursing at herself for not thinking of it sooner. On her knees she scooted closer to his back, wrapping her shaking fingers around the hilt and pulled. To her surprise she had to use more force than she thought she would, inching the knife through Michaels body as he let out pained groans, rolling his neck in agony or was it annoyance? 

Blood poured from the wound, the blade completely soaked with the crimson liquid. The blade skittered across the floor as she threw it from her hands, blood splattering onto the surrounding tiles. Oya stood quickly, running past Michael and into her room. “I have something that- that will help you with the pain!” She yelled over her shoulder, ripping open the old doctors chest Michael had given her for her many potions. The glass clincked against one another as her hands frantically ran over them trying to find  _ that one potion _ . Bottles with different kinds of liquids were pulled up recklessly and tossed to the side when they didn’t carry the right name written on the side. 

When she finally found the bottles she was looking for she ran back to the bathroom and found Michael standing, head crooked to the side while he observed himself in the mirror, hands carelessly pushing at the ripped hole in his shirt. 

“I won't be needing that,” he smirked at her gabing face through the mirror. “It will take a lot more than that to hurt me.” 

Michael turned to Oya taking her face in his hands and placing a soft kiss on top of her head. She looked tired, exhausted really. And maybe that was why she had panicked as if he was a normal human. But Michael was anything but normal, this was a testimony to that. Most witches wouldn’t be able to get up after that, let alone heal themselves the way he had. 

“You scared me,” she whispered barely loud enough for herself to hear. They could have destroyed this body of his, made it harder for him to return. They could have banished his soul to wander limbo, the inbetween. If that had happened all would have been lost, he would have a hard time getting back and she… She would have been somewhere cursed, beyond his reach. 

Michael didn't respond, maybe he didn't hear, all he did was place another soft kiss on her head before turning from her to button down his shirt. Oya placed the bottles on the counter top, using it to lean against while she looked at herself in the mirror. 

Between the two of them Michael was the most crimson, his hair had turned red, both his back and chest messy with his own blood, while his shoulders was stained with the blood that had seeped through his shirt from the coven member that had exploded into bits and pieces while towering above his kneeling from. 

Oya however looked like a painting. Her sun touched skin now pale with exhaustion, splattered with red dots and lines to remind her of what was done. The fingers on her hands were soaked with blood that was a mix of Michaels and the covens. 

“Have you noticed the pattern of ruined articles of clothing wherever you go?” Michael spoke with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.The faucet began to pour water into the tub, slowly filling it up. “After you’ve come here you’ve managed to ruin more clothe that I ever have. It’s becoming quite expensive.”

“You don’t mind though,” she stated with an amused tug on her lips, pushing the pink straps of the dress from her shoulders to let it pool at her feet. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him, the curve of his collarbones, the painted skin of his toned body, all the way down and up again, while she pinned her hair up in a messy bun, small strands and curls escaping her lazy fingers. She watched Michael turn and get in the hot water before she herself came to stand by the side of the tub. 

“We also always manage to become bloody messes and end up in my bathroom,” Oya mused, picking up a bowl by the tub and filling it with water. Michael moved forward in the tub, allowing Oya to use the back of it as a seat while she poured water through his hair. The water was stained with blood quick enough, with each pour over Michael's head the water at her feet became a deeper and deeper red. It seemed like blood clinged to his golden locks, refusing to be washed out. Would her own hands ever become clean of blood? Her sisters blood. 

Oya clinged to Michael, focusing on cleaning him up rather than get lost in the many thoughts and doubts that was beginning to claw at her mind. Warmth radiated off of the boy who sat ever so calmly, relishing in the touch of his lover, embraced by the warm and cleaning water. 

“I think I’ve poured water over your head fify times but the blood just wont come out,” Oya complained loudly, pouring water over his head once more and then using her fingers to shift his golden locks. 

Though she couldn’t see him, she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “You did explode a man right beside me. I’ve never seen such raw power unleashed, it was quite something.”

“If I hadn’t exploded him this body of yours would be gone forever,” Oya playfully bit back, deciding that the water that ran through his hair was clean enough, meaning there were not much if any blood left. The bowl was placed beside the rub and replaced with a sponge. She cleaned off his back with light touches. 

“My father wouldn’t have let them,” Michael hummed.

“It didn’t seem like that.”

“I wanted to see how things played out,” Michael confessed. Oya stilled behind him, withdrawing her hands from his body and stepped quietly out of the tub to kneel at its side. Michael leaned back, revealing the lines the water had carved across his face in the blood and those blue eyes that was ever so observant, reading into her every move. He watched her to figure out how she’d react. 

And maybe if it had been any other time she’d have cursed him out, thrown some stuff aimed at his head or shove his head under water until there was no air left in him lungs. Instead she continued to wash the blood off him, first his face and then his chest, until there was nothing left but soft skin. 

“You could have prevented it all?” Michael took the hand that held the sponge and held it, motioning with his head for her to join him in the tub.

Without a second though she did. The water embraced her with warmth, cleaning off her skin. She stopped the faucet from running any more, plucking the hole in the bottom to ensure the water remained where it should. Michael calmly drew the sponge over her skin, ridding her of bloodspeckles and dirt. 

“No,” He admitted. “Not all.” 

Her bones felt like glass, joints grading against each other every time she moved, every cell in her body screaming out for sleep, for rest. Everything hurt, even his touch. The pain kept her conscious, it was as dull as it was piercing. With the streams of water she could have slipped away, sink below the surface and towards sleep. 

Then she felt him, wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her to his chest, placing a soft kiss on her shoulder. She leaned against him, rested her head on his chest and closing her eyes to revel in the feeling of his skin against hers. He was warmer than the water. 

“You were like the moon on a starless sky,” he told her with that velvet voice she had grown so accustomed to. “Beautiful.”

“It wasn’t beautiful, I thought you were going to die, that-that,” she began trying to figure out where her thought was really going. Tears began to press at her eyes, threatening to spill over and join the water the two of them were sitting in. “That I was going to be stripped of everything I am and send away to some wretched place.” She licked her lips and closed her eyes. Michaels fingers gently brushed along the skin of her thigh, whirling up the warmth in the surrounding water. 

“They were wrong,” she spoke. “They thought that separating us would stop the world from ending but you’d drop the bombs anyway, weather it’d kill me or not.” 

Michael didn’t speak, he neither confirmed nor denied it because it wasn’t needed. They both knew that he would. The bombs would be dropped, maybe at a later date, after he had scoured the earth, searched it high and low and still stand alone. Then he’d drop them and the fire would not only wipe out mankind but also claim her life. 

The end was invenedable. No matter what happened between now and then was mere instanced and decisions, the end was set. 

“How do you feel?” Michael asked. How was she supposed to answer that? What she felt was a hurricane of emotions all the while also feeling numb. The only thing that was definitative was the aching pain in her body. 

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“You’ve spent centuries having only one future, you’ve only thought about your revenge and how you’d take it if you were ever to be released. And when you were it was your only goal, weather you knew if they were alive or not,” he mused with the same drawl she found so intriguing. “In Venice you showed your mercy, you gave them time while it was also revenge. You knew it wasn’t over, it wouldn’t be over before the bombs dropped but now… Now everything you’ve wished for is done.”

Oya moved away from Michael, turning in the tub so that she could look upon his face. A tear made its way down her cheek, he watched it drop and wished to pick it up and taste the salt, the raw emotion she was feeling, but he didn't. 

“ _ You’re not only mourning the death of your sister but also the end to your vengeance. _ ” 

“What am I to do now? The one thing I’ve wanted to achieve in centuries, my one goal, has been done. I never imagined that freedom would feel so…  _ hollow _ .” Admitting to it was far harder than it would seem. Being victor was as rewarding as it was lonesome, as if she had reached the mountain top and was now looking at the horizon knowing that she was now without reason. 

“I don’t know what to do now, Michael.”

Michael brushed a stray piece of hair out of her face, swiping it behind her ear in one swift move, his finger brushing against her cheek in a loving way. “I can give you a new purpose, if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” she breathed, feeling electricity shoot out from his fingertips into her. Her heart fluttered at the feeling. It was warm and familiar and welcome. 

“I need someone by my side who I can trust, someone who’d build this new world with me. You’re already that someone, you were the moment we met, the moment we bound our souls,” as he spoke his blue eyes seemed aflame, flickering in the moonlight that shined in through the window. She saw herself reflected in them, so small and without meaning, then blooming into something more, better. They had spoken about it many times before. To stand by each other's side in this new world, to build it and rule it together. “Let this new world be your purpose.”

“I will give you all that I can. I will grow this new world of ours,” she promised. Now it was her turn to reach for him, caressing his cheek and placing a soft and gentle kiss on his lips before turning around and leaning back against him. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was smiling. Somewhere within his chest, where most thought would be an empty hole or rotting black heart, was a very human heart, that fluttered at her promised and quickened its pace when she leaned against him. 

Born of life and death Michael had always been caught in between. He had brought on more death than life and would bring on much more, and from death life would spring, a new cycle would begin and just maybe, there would begin to be more life than death in his existence. 

Many times he had been called a monster, to have been seen as something less that human. He considered it his punishment for the life he was given. But just maybe it was the opposite, that Michael was more human than anyone ever realised. Even behind the facade he had created for himself. Humanity was afterall the greatest thing to exist and quite possibly god's biggest mistake. Humanity and the human condition was a puzzle never to be solved, it intrigued him as much as it infuriated him. 

Like him Oya was born with a link to the grave. She had killed more than he had but less that he will. But she had also brought more life into this world, nature spoke to her in a way it never had to him. She would from that in which life could grow and just maybe in that he could find merciful peace. 

  
  



	15. Stripped at the gate and thrown to the fire

Michael watched her with his hands folded over his chest, leaning against the wall while his eyes followed her erratic movements. Oya paced around placing herbs and candles and stones just the right way in the mall room. At one moment she’s on her knees making sure the stones weren’t out of order so they wouldn’t screw up the ritual, the next she was at the other end of the room standing on the tip of her toes reaching to place a candle on the shelf cut into the limestone walls. 

Of course none of it was needed, his ritual and magic didn’t rely on magical stones or garden herbs, his powers extended further than that. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop her, not when she felt that this would not only protect her but also lessen the blow. In reality, it was a way for her to feel in control in a situation where she’d give up any control she had to him. 

And so he didn’t object but rather found amusement in it. Oya picked up chalk and began drawing symbols on the walls. 

“Are you sure this is necessary?” she asked even though she already knew the answer. 

“Yes,” he answered her with a chuckle. To him, the drawing she made looked like a man with a broken back yelling to the gods of his misfortune. Whatever it was supposed to help with he didn’t know. He could feel her unease, it lingered in the air around her, a nervousness and reluctance. Who could really blame her?

“I don’t like the idea of being left defenseless,” Oya grumbled kneeling on the other side of the room to draw new symbols. This time he recognized it as Scandinavian but still the meaning of it eluded him. 

Michael let out a breathy laugh shaking his head full of golden strands. “I don’t think you’d ever be defenseless. It’s not in you.” 

Oya wanted to answer him, to scoff a ‘ _ you leave me defenseless’ _ but she was afraid they’d both puke all over the pentagram at their feet and Satan might not be as lenient to lend a hand in the future. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head quietly before returning to draw a broken circle around what looked like fucked up letters. 

“Where would I go, if I died?” She asked with a morbid interest. Michael frowned behind her, finding her question worrying but also a jab towards his abilities to keep her safe. Disregarding the needles she felt picking at her back and the small silent huff Michael let out, she continued. “If I die as a human would I go to your hell or would I end up in the underworld?” 

Oya turned, still crouched down to observe his face. Michaels' eyes had turned darker and more thoughtful. His arms were still folded, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up revealing the soft skin of his forearms and the shadow of veins running over them. Silence settled around them, the nervousness that wrapped around her like a veil seemingly growing. 

The silence was broken by Michael drawing in a big breath, pushing off the wall and walking towards Oya’s crouched body, towering over her moments before coming down to her level to take her face in his hands, brushing stray hairs out of her face. His eyes were determined.

“ _ If _ you die I’d come and get you wherever you are, be it hell or the underworld or the fucking heavens! I would come get you,” he assured her, his voice dark and rumbling with the same drawl she had grown fond of. There was a devotion to his words that she had never experienced before, one that was annoyed she’d ever think he’d leave in death but also wanted to reassure her that he was as much in this as she was. The risk was steep, hundreds of possibilities could lead to her death when she was nothing but human and that was what she was worried about, and what he was willing to put on the line. 

“I think we can agree I won’t be going to heaven, but the sentiment is noted and appreciated. It’s good to know you’d walk right up and punch god in the face to get me back,” she said and flashed him a reassuring smile. The man before her shook his head at the picture she pained, the tension that had worked its way into his shoulders loosened. “I’m just curious, devil-boy. As a human were would I go?”

Michael pursed his lips in thought mirroring her mood, “Hell. You wouldn’t be touched by your magic so your soul would most likely wind up there.”

Oya turned back to her scribbles, letting Michael stand watch over her. He understood her worry, the fear of putting her life into his hands with no control left for herself. But he also felt gratified that she’d do so. There was a power in it, a rush that was undeniable. Still, all he wanted was her trust, both in him and his vision for the future. 

“It’s done,” she said, placing the chalk on the floor and brushing off her hands before rising and feeling a rush of blood go to her head. Within her chest, her heart picked up speed, adrenalin beginning to tickle its way through her system. Michael took her hand and helped her into the middle of the pentagram. Caught between her teeth was her bottom lip that was ruthlessly nawled at in anticipation, worry. 

With ease Oya settled down on the pentagram, opening her robe to reveal the soft skin beneath, her chest heaving with each breath she took and her nipples hardening against the cold air in the room. Beside her Michael kneeled down, eyes running over her sun touched skin, its feel familiar and reminiscent tinkering at his fingertips. 

In this room where he first  _ saw  _ her, where he first had her, where he released her from her binding cage, would also be where he traps her once more with a cage so golden no magic of hers would be left behind.

Michael wrapped his finger around the blade, letting its cling scrape against the stone before lifting it off. Oya peeked up at him, her chest arching off the stone in deep breaths that edged out some of her bones. It made her look fragile, this thin little form placed upon a blood red pentagram, candlelights casting shadows across her skin and the herbs looking more like burial flowers than anything else. 

Their eyes met and the unvoiced question was asked, was she ready? Oya nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of her robe. 

The blade bit into her chest, following her chest bone from beginning to end drawing a crimson line that soon overflowed painting her skin. The cut stung but it wasn’t what brought tears to her eyes, overflowing as quickly as the wound did, carving a way over her skin to drip onto her hair. 

Michaels brows knitted together in concentration, his tendrils filling to room in a suffocating way, washing over her with their burning touch and wrapping themselves around her from, digging into her skin and trailing up her spine. From his pocket, Michael produced a clear crystal, the cut fine and dignified and the stone itself as long as her palm and half as wide. It was placed upon her wound, smearing the blood onto it painting it the same crimson that flowed through her veins. It felt heavy, however small it was, it felt as heavy a boulder. 

With an elegance a ballerina would envy, Michael raised his hand, sliding through the flesh of it to let his own blood drip onto her, onto the stone, onto her would, onto her unblemished skin. His eyes turned a demonic black, words she couldn’t grasp falling from his mouth, while the pain increased. 

Where her mother had used serpents blood Michael used his own, her mother had held her down, Oya remained in her place of own volition and most of all where her mother had her daughter raped she was now left untouched. It was her willingness that changed the ritual, it was the trust she gave Michael rather than a betrayal. 

But the pain, the pain was greater this time, physically. It felt as if she was ripped in two, every cell in her body divided and the magic taken from it. The pain was blinding, it tore through her with vicious claws, bared its teeth at her throat and dug into her heart. Every drop of magic seemed to crystallize, cutting through her veins until they reached her heart, where they gathered up until it seemed like it was about to tear within her chest. It felt like glass cutting at her heart, so ruthlessly it took her breath away and silenced her whimpers of pain. 

For a moment her heart stilled and she thought it might have crystallized, hardened at the magnitude of magic to be kept there, turned to stone. And just maybe it wouldn’t start again. 

And then it did. Her senses rushed back to her, drowning her while she gasped for breath. She felt weak towards this pain that had changed in an instance. Now it felt like every bone in her body had been broken thousand times over, every joint torn from its place and turned to glass. Her muscles ached in a way she had never felt before. She felt fragile and weak. 

Arms wrapped around her, a hand coming to cradle the back of her head as he lifted her towards his chest. Oya gasped in pain, cries shaking from her throat, while her body almost violently shook under his touch. Tears burned in her eyes, burned down her face and dripped onto Michael’s shirt. 

“Shh, you’re okay. You did well. You’re okay, Oya,” Michael hummed reassuringly in her ear, trying to calm her down enough to take her somewhere else. Her body and gone ice cold and with Michael’s hands on her, it felt like they scorch marks into her skin. 

“It… H-hurts… so bad,” she coaked out, nails digging into his shirt and skin. He petted her head, trying to reassure her that she were to be okay but was hard to hear over the pain, it was hard to do anything with it. But she supposed it was better than when her mother did it because now she had someone with her, someone who actually cared for her enough to stay and make sure she’d be alright. 

“It hurts, Michael,” she cried. 

“I know,” he answered pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His answer irked her, it made her want to throw something at him. He had no idea what it was like, the pain she felt, how utterly powerless she was. It angered her that he would think he knew of it, the pain and emptiness that coursed through her, hollowed her out. He still had his magic, more power in his fucking pinky than she had in her whole body. He knew nothing. It might have been irrational or maybe it was rational.

“If you betray me, Michael, I will never forgive you,” she threatened against his shoulder, bearing her teeth even though he could not see. She didn’t see his expression, the soloum shadow that fell over his face, the dedication and devotion that burned in his eyes, and the vavor that tremmored through the blue. Instead, she felt his hand continue to pet her and his voice softly cooing in her ear. 

In one of his hands, he held the stone that had once been clear but had now turned obsidian with blood smeared over it. The stone represented the power that was locked away in her heart if it broke the power would release and engulf her once more. It was of a bitter beauty, much like Oya herself. 

She moved away from him and flinched at the pain that bloomed upon her chest, drawing a hissing breath before connecting her eyes with his. “I need you to get me to my bedroom.” 

Without a second thought he lifted her up, Oya groaning at the pain making his eyes flood with sympathy. One second they were in the basement and the next she felt her soft covers brush against her as he put her down on the bed. She groaned again, lying down and welcoming the feeling of never wanting to get up again. Her fingers brushed the open wound, hissing at the sting. Michael’s eyes followed the movement. 

“How does it feel?” He asked, spreading her legs so that he could stand between them, letting his hand take hers and moved it away from the wound. 

“It hurts,” She breathed and watched as his finger trailed up towards the wound, warmth spring from him and electrifying her skin. Goosebumps formed, the hairs on the back of her neck standing and her heart restarting its rapid pace. “I feel weak and fragile. Empty. I absolutely hate it.”

Michael couldn’t help but smile a little at her words, letting his power course through him and into her skin. He watched as she healed, what would have taken weeks taking mere seconds until there was a fine thin scar. After healing her he walked, disappearing into the bathroom. She heard the tap run for a moment. 

Oya looked down and traced the scar up between the valley of her breasts, feeling the mending skin beneath her fingers and the sticky blood. Michael reappeared between her legs with a wet towel. He looked at her before letting it brush against her skin, washing off the blood that had poured from the cut and onto her neck, slowly working his way down. His eyes were attentive and careful.

It was strange how her body reacted to him. She could feel the fight or flight instinct nibble at her, making the airs on the back of her neck stand with unease as if she was lying before a predator. In a way she was. The alarm she felt when she first saw him, when she allowed him to enter her property all those weeks ago, rushed back. Her body knew he was dangerous, knew he was powerful and not quite…  _ right _ . There was something about him that lured her in as much as it made her want to flee. Michael was a beautiful snake, one made to look harmless and draw its prey in and as soon as that was done he’d strike and let his venom pour into their hearts. 

He reached beneath her breasts, washing off the stain that had followed her ribs and down. Still, he watches her, watched as she tried and figure out how to react to the way her body reacted to him, even if he didn’t know about it. 

“How does it feel now?” He asked, brushing off just above her navel. The heat radiated off of him, climbed along her legs, in between them and up, shooting out from his hands. 

Oya frowned a little, trying to come up with the right words. “I feel like I was run over by a herd of horses.”

Entertained Michael quirked a brow, eyes gleaming in mischief and amusement, he chuckled lightly and shook his head, ruffling up his golden locks. They had grown. It made him seem older. 

She drew in a deep breath that made her chest arch up, edging out her bones and prompting up her breasts. Even though she didn’t make note of it, his eyes roamed her. “It feels strange, I’m not sure how to explain it… It’s like having lost a limb or a sense. There’s something missing and that part leaves me utterly powerless, fragile. Is this how humans always feel?”

“Humans never had that extra sense or limb, they wouldn’t know why they feel so fragile and powerless, they just… do. I suppose that is why they try and make up for it in every other sense,” Michael mused in thought. He reached up to dry off the spots of blood that had landed on her breasts, the wettened towel brushing over her nipple and making it perk up. 

“You’re aware what effect you have on humans,” she stated. Of course he did, he could see right through them. That was his thing, to be able to see directly into a person's soul, see what makes them tick and then use it for his benefit. What he wanted was for them to acknowledge their deepest darkest desire, expose them and exploit them. And that might just be why they were either drawn or repelled by him. The repulsion would turn into allurement eventually. 

“Explain it to me.” His voice had fallen an octave, deepened by her words. Oya perked up on her elbows to better look at him. 

“You see right through them, you know what they want even if they don’t know it themselves and you’ll use it against them. You trigger the fight or flight response, trust me, no matter how attracted to you they are, the response will still be there. You’re a serpent, you could strike at any moment,” she said and let her words draw a smirk upon his face, one revealing that serpent skin beneath the pale human clothing he wore. To humans, that was what he was and unless they had seen anything else, they’d never know the boy that was locked away inside. 

Oya’s head tilted, her hair falling loose from the poorly made bun. “Humans are defenseless against you and they don't know it, not until it’s too late.”

“And how is your human body reacting?” 

Oya smiled, one as mischievous as his because he had just proved her point. Michael always wanted one's truth, he thrived on it, desired it, to leave someone bare. “Weak. It’s reacting to your presence both with the desire to run but also with undeniable arousal. It knows you’re dangerous but it still wants you.” She took his hand that held the towel and wettened her lips before continuing. “For making me this feeble little human  _ you _ should be  _ licking _ the blood off of me.”

With an almost burning touch, she felt his hand come around the back of her knee before the other pulled out of her grasp, throwing the wet towel to the floor before he sank to his knee, trailing the other hand down her body to push her legs further apart. Her body reacted with a spike of adrenaline coursing through her, pulsating towards her core that was already dripping wet with arousal.

His eyes never left her, not when he traced kisses up her thighs, not when his breath hit her core and where she wanted him the most and they wouldn’t leave her, that much she knew. He’d savor every emotion, every breath, every noise she made. Oya drew in a rigged breath, biting her lip in anticipation. 

“There’s a difference between them and you though,” he said, smirking like the devil while his eyes tried to remain as innocent as possible. Emphasis on tried because in this he failed, miserably. In this moment it was hard to believe he had ever been innocent, those big blue eyes of his were made of something else entirely. Michael kissed the soft flesh of her inner thigh between his teeth and nibbled.

A breathy moan left her, mind beginning to scramble together. “And what is that?”

“You’re the only one I’d touch like this,” he said so sweetly it made her mind spin. Her mouth was left open, breath stuck in her throat as he licked over her folds, all the way up, cleaning the area of the little blood that was left on her. He dived into her, tongue slowly licking its way up her slick folds before rolling over her bundle of nerves. A wave of electricity washed over her, every cell in her body reacting to his touch. She couldn’t help but moan loudly and decided she’d let him know just what his touch did to her. 

With an iron grip, Michael held her to the bed, arms wrapped around her to make sure she couldn’t move an inch. It made it all the more erotic but also so much more agonizing. His licks were slow and deliberate, filled with the intent for her to wither away. 

Oya fisted her hands in the fabric of the bed, arching her back with a filling breath, while her eyes fluttered with pleasure. His tongue pressed against her clit, first softly and then hard, bringing forth the most lewd sounds. The pleasure shot up through her body, coiled in her stomach and forced her heart to pump blood through her as fast as it possibly could. She wanted to move against him, to force him to pick up his pace just enough for her to fall over the edge. He didn’t budge. She could feel herself on the edge but no further, he refused her that and it made her almost whine out loud. 

“Evil spawn, that is what you are!” she exclaimed, curing her fingers through his hair, soft as silk, to tug at the locks in a futile attempt to make him do her bidding. Ecstasy was  _ right there _ , she basically brushed against it every time he pressed his tongue to her. But  _ right there _ was just out of reach. 

“I allowed you to turn me human and this is what you give me!” She complained even louder, tears stinging in her eyes out of pure frustration. Michael smirked against her, she could fucking feel it. With more force she tugged at his hair, a slight whine escaping her. 

“I,” he drawled looking up at her, mouth gleaming with slick and eyes dangerously mischievous. “Want.” Slowly, two fingers entered her, shallow and cruel. She clenched around his, body begging for more while her mouth was open in breathless moans. “You.” A few more inches went inside of her, curling deliciously up. “To beg,” he finished. 

Oya almost couldn't comprehend lost in the feeling of his fingers brushing against her g-spot while his thumb circled around her swollen nub. Defiance and spite welled up in her. “You fuck-Ah! Fuck-ing asshole!  _ Ah, Shi-bal _ !” 

What began as English turned into Korean, the languages mingling together in her mind. “ _ Shi-bal-nom-a! _ ”

“I’m beginning to understand what ‘ _ shi-bal _ ’ means,” Michael gloated like the fucker he was. If there was something heavy near her, anything, she’d have thrown it after him. But all that was were pillows that were deemed all too soft to throw at him within the second they came to mind. 

“Devil boy!” She hissed at him only to see his smirk grow. He curled his fingers and ascended his mouth to her clit again. 

“Beg,” he mumbled against her and let the vibrations run through her. 

“Michael,” she warned and pulled his hair again with stinging force. It only made his eyes flutter at the pain. “You owe me this!”

Michael withdrew from her and an actual whine fell from her brows knitted together in disapproval. She sat up at the edge, fingers brushing over Michael's chest, only to nib at the buttons of his shirt to open it up. While she unbuttoned him, Michael ran his fingers through her hair and gently caressed the side of her head with tenderness. As soon as she had unbuttoned the shirt Michaels hand wrapped around her throat, turning her face towards him. 

The first kiss was soft and chased but the next was filled with fiery passion. Michael pulled her to him, followed her onto the bed and pressed himself against her core dragging out a swallowed moan. By the feel of her lips pressed against his and her hot core beckoning against his bugle, Michaels resolve melted away. 

“You owe me,” she repeated with a faint voice, pressing herself up against him, wrapping her legs around his hips in an attempt to entrap him. Michael growled and buried his face in her neck, leaving bruising kisses and bitemarks spread across her skin made to last for days, reminders of him. 

Michael caved and pushed his pants down to relieve the erection that had been straining against his pants. Oya’s eyes fluttered at the sight, her core clenching around the memory of him. It was strange how aroused she was, how her blood gushed through her veins with adrenalin as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff, the danger making her heart speed up. Her body knew he was dangerous and it absolutely thrived on it. 

Without further thought Michael entered her, slow and deliberate, letting her feel every inch, feel the very fine stretch that made her eyes roll. Michael groaned into her neck as she lifted her hips from the bed allowing him to deepen the slow entry. The first thrust was swallowed and scattered with light kisses. The second thrust was harder and deeper. By the third thrust Michael had decided on a quick pace knowing that Oya wouldn’t last long by the way she mewled under him. 

Her nails raked over the skin of his back, drawing angry red lines on pale fine skin. She sucked on his neck and lifted her hips to meet his, earning a string of moans and broken curses. The only thing that made Oya break her string of kisses was when he repeatedly hit that one spot that made stars fall from the sky and her toes curl. “Fuck! Baby!” 

His breath was rigged, sweat pearling at his temples and curls bouncing around his flushed face. Like this, he was human, with a human flutter, with blood rushing beneath his skin, with breaths stuck in his throat. In this pleasure, he was just as human as she was. 

Her climax came like a sudden wave, washing over her with an electric touch that painted her eyelids white. She clenched around him bringing him with her into ecstasy, a bliss pure and simple. 

Michael fell against her chest with a long dragged out moan, wrapping his arms around her waist. Oya couldn’t help but curl her fingers through his hair, feeling the strands stick to her skin. Like that they lay, breaths being drawn in while they calmed their hearts and let the temperature fall. For the first time that day her mind was completely quiet, not a single worry left after the tidal wave of pleasure. For a moment all worries were forgotten. 

“Michael,” she spoke with a gentle voice, hesitant as to how to continue. “I…” Her voice died out, unable to finish the sentence because of how colossal the admittance was. It would sollify it -make it reality. And that is what frightened her because it was also something very small and fragile. 

“ _ I know _ ,” Michael answered with just as gentle voice, listening to her heartbeat. It didn’t surprise her, to him she was an open book. Sometimes he knew her better than herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be longer. We've finally reached the point where Oya is sent to the bunker.   
> Since the next few chapters will be longer it will also take longer for me to update.   
> Drop a comment and give me inspiration to write.


	16. Apocalypse Now Part I

The first week of the apocalypse she had spend in a concrete bunker with some of Michaels ‘associates’ that was really just a nice word for servants or followers. Michael himself had kissed her goodbye for the next three months and sent her away to that cold little grey prison. If he had been there she might have slapped him for not warning her.

And then she was taken away, wrapped in a strange plastic suit that should stand as a protection against the radioactive outside. They drow for what felt like hours and without the sun upon the ever grey sky it was hard to tell how much time really did pass. Everything was burned to a crisp. Ash and bones and remnants of what was before standing as a solome graveyard. In some areas, there was nothing, just dust, while in others the skillet of buildings tumbling down served as society headstones in a world that tried to forget what was before.

They came to an area where burned bushes and trees begged for the sun to shine through the massive layer of dust that encapsulated the world. By the time the sun was to show its face once more, the plants would be long dead and gone. It saddened her, to see nature well past its breaking point.

They drow through black gates and guided her off the car before leaving her in the middle of nowhere alone. And for a few moments, she was alone, completely, with the destruction weighing in on her.

From within a strange sculpture of sort appeared two black dressed figures with masks that resembled plague doctors. At first, they sized her up with unreadable faces hidden by the mask, the next they mentioned for her to follow. They took an elevator down into the ground.

After she had been disinfected and cleared she was allowed to take off the suffocating space suit she had come to find both all too hot and cold at the same time. She was lead out into the hallway and found the tiles were all the same, lighted up by candles that cast a warm glow along with deep shadows. It was strange to be underground, a place where the dead had been buried for millenniums, now a place protection.

“I am Wilhelmina Venable and welcome to Outpost 3.” Her voice travelled along the stones, cold and distant. Venable looked gothic, to say the least, controlled in every aspect of her, with dark lips and even darker eyes. So this was the woman Michael had chosen to run the outpost. Oya couldn’t exactly say she agreed with his decision but of course, like with everything else Michael had a plan and if that plan had her playing someone smaller than who she really was, then so be it.

As she followed the gothic woman through the bunker she began talking. Telling Oya of the sorting of Purples, the elite as she called them, and the Greys.  Then about the rules, the strict no sex policy that’d end with a bullet between your eyes were you not to follow it and the schedule. The apocalypse had given Venable the chance to remake this tiny little world inside the safety of these walls in her image.

Oya could already tell that it was going to be a long 3 months.

After changing her comfortable clothing into a tight corset and purple victorian dress, she joined the rest of the inhabitants in Outpost 3 in the library. The woman with dark short hair and round figure she had come to know as Mrs. Mead introduced her to everyone else with a cold disinterested voice Venable would have been proud of.

“This is our newest arrival, Oya Jeon.”

“Did you pay your way to get in here too?” A blond ask with a stringy and obnoxious voice. Before Oya could answer Mrs. Mead did it for her. “Not everyone paid their way into the new world.”

“Then what, huh?” All attention was now on Oya, immediately labelled as someone not like them.

“She has a PhD in botany. Someone has to be able to grow the new world,” Mrs. Mead bit back and left her to the wolves. Oya looked over them, one by one. They were a pathetic gathering in her opinion. Why Michael decided to give her a degree in botany of all the things she could have been given were beyond her. He could have made her a doctor or engineer, something more impressive than plants.

“I would have thought they’d have Mexicans with their skills in gardening and not some china-doll,” the oldest woman spoke before throwing back her drink. The causality of her racism seemed to make everyone in the room roll their eyes and even made the obvious gay man with short blond hair visibly uncomfortable.

“I’m Korean and if you want anything to eat whenever the radiation is gone you’ll need a person with knowledge of plants and a greenthumb,” Oya spoke not stumbling the slightest under the narrow glare the old bitch send her. The blond man laughed uncomfortably and approached Oya, reaching out to touch her hair. She couldn’t help but frown and lean back as he took a strand of her hair between her fingers, looking over it with interest.

“My god, you do have beautiful hair! I would love to set it some time,” he spoke, walking behind her to lift up the rest as if he was already starting to piece together what to do with it. A blond woman abruptly stood up, fist in balls at her sides, while her pink lips were cast downwards. She glared intensely at the two of them.

“You’re my hairdresser! Without me and my ticket you’d be dead by now!” She exclaimed childishly. “Her hair is not even that great.”

And so life in the bunker began, wrapped in torturous corsets, outdated dresses and lace while being fed the most boring meal of all time in the form of a tiny little cube. Michael was going to pay for this.

The old hag Evie proved to be the most annoying of all. She was a relic of a time long past even before the apocalypse, cast in old time glamour and venomous intent. Then there was her grandson, Mr. Gallant, whom Oya found one of the better of the survivors. Dinah Steven she found to be one of the quiet ones, yes she took part in the conversation but whatever she truly thought never came through. There was something about her, a shadow that lingered, one none of the others had. Oya couldn’t help but think that she was a woman that’d do anything to survive, to get ahead in life. Quite opposite to his mother, Andre Stevens and his boyfriend, were weak and dramatic, neither of them carried the shadow, the promise of teeth and claws.

And then there was Coco. Never before had Oya met anyone as shallow and superficial as her, which was the reason she sometimes bit her tongue to get along with the woman. No one could possibly be as fake in personality as her, which only made Oya feel a sense of… forgery. And in turn, there was Mallory, the quiet little mouse that followed Coco around and did everything she was told. The grey was so tiny, both physically and in personality, easily overshadowed by Coco’s sense of self. Because of that and her status as a grey, the group that was overlooked and lingered in the shadows, Oya used her as an opportunity to keep her ear to the floor so to speak. If anything were to happen in the outpost a grey would know about it. Mallory was a sweet girl who wanted nothing but acceptance and kindness in return. So Oya gave her that.

The person Michael had told would protect her, was still in the unknown and the treats were many. There were days where it felt like the whole place could collapse into insanity, the human psyche was not meant to be trapped like this day in and day out, with no stimulus and no new impressions. Once she saw Stu cry over the song that played over and over again.

And then there was Mrs. Venable. The cold shadow, the now familiar click of her cane sending shivers down one's back and striking fear into hearts. There was no other word to describe her than cold. And along with her were Mrs. Mead, the loyal guard dog.

If Oya hadn't promised Michael not to kill any of them, they’d all be dead. Even the newest arrivals, Timothy and Emily, bleak as they were. That day two greys had been executed for their indiscretions. The two newcomers were teenagers said to have the perfect DNA and as soon as Oya heard that she wanted to throw a book at Michaels' head. Perfect DNA? Ridiculous. They were normal hormonal teens bound to fall in love when trapped with the most horrid people left on earth.

Of course, marking their arrival the tension had grown within the outpost and during dinner it simmered over with Coco standing up and demanding answers, demanding better treatment for the 100 of millions that had gotten her in here. Like clockwork, Mrs. Venable rained down on it, hard. Stu was the price for disturbance, the price for the growing tension. Killed with the excuse of radiation and by doing so Venable maintained power.

Oya had a hunch it would happen but she never imagined being feed Stu on a silver platter, literally. Even if Mrs. Venable denied that it was an act of cannibalism, the suspicion of it was enough to fast that day and enough to keep the people on their knees, just as she wanted them.

When the three months had passed Oya began to feel a sense of dread and hopelessness set in. She tried to fill her day with books, finding solace in written words rather than unintelligible conversation. By that time she knew more about the others that she cared for.

When 6 months had passed anger began to set in, along with the annoying need for skinship, the ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she masturbated. Her body, mind and soul had grown accustomed to Michaels and when faced with lasting separation, it seemed too long for his company. So instead of focusing on longing, she focused on anger.

_Where the fuck was he? Who the fuck was he to abandon her here with these people?... Was he hurt? Was he dead?_

And if he wasn’t fucking dead he was sure to be when she got her hands on him. She’d ring him like a fucking dinner bell, wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes popped out. Or maybe stab him, over and over and over. Poison him. Kill him with a dull spoon. When there were all the time in the world you’d think a whole lot of things.

18 months. From what she counted it was 18 months after the end of the world. That was 15 months more than what was expected. After a year she had begun to falter, to think that something had happened and she could do nothing about it. With her powers locked away and Michael in the possession of what could release them she was unable to tap into the energy. Within the prison of her body were her magic, her body within the prison of the outpost and Mrs. Venable, and all of that within the prison of radiation. To be kept from her full potential and to look eternity in the face with these people was painful to say the least.

If he came he better carry a fucking crown for her.

The day had been the same as every other day, but this time there were entertainment at dinner. Mr. Gallant boiling over with anger and hopelessness, throwing a tantrum as soon as they were told of the decision to cut back another meal. Everyone was starving and desperate.

Hiding behind a glass of water, Oya allowed herself a tiny smile at the entertainment. If she were honest she’d pay to see Gallant shove a fork into Dinah for her endless positivity blabber. She’d pay even more if he were to do it to his grandmother. Gallant was in an uprise, ready to rebel against the dictators and create a revolution, all he really needed was the rest of them on his side. It could happen. It was a possibility.

But this revolution they had seen happen all too many times. And the fires were to be extinguished or else it might just actually change things.

“What is the point of all of this? Starving? Killing each other? Getting shot?!” Coco exclaimed over the others. Her nose flared, breath quickened in anger. “-All we’re doing is waiting around finding out how we die.”

“I say we take out chances outside,” Mallory commented with strange confidence, breaking the trusted mouse position she was always in. It happened every once in a while, that something broke through the insecure mask of hers. While Coco was extravagant and dramatic, it felt as though Mallory was created to be overshadowed by her. While Coco was hostile, Mallory was docile. But sometimes she wasn't.

“She’s right!” Gallant agreed loudly, his voice rising into a yell. Oya put down her cup of water and nibbled at the half a square jelly on her plate. The sight of it managed to make her sad. Maybe a revolution was really what was best for them. No one was coming after all and Mrs. Venable grasped the reigns of power all too tightly.

“We have to get out of here,” He continued.

“Nobody is going anywhere,” Mrs. Mead spoke in a cold and controlled tone. This seemed to be Gallants last straw, the passiveness becoming too much. He threw his plate to the floor in anger, shattering it into pieces that scattered across the tiles.

“What are you gonna do?! _Shoot me?!_ ” He yelled loudly and restlessly, squaring up for a fight. If anything, the mountain of a woman, the one called ‘Fist’ as if it were any better, began to prepare herself for a fight, waiting for the order to rain down on the smaller man. “Huh! What are you gonna do? Shoot us all? Huh? What’re you gonna do!”

In a flash the room was cast in red light, swallowing up all colours and shadows. It wasn’t long after the alarm began, the deafening noise travelling through the halls, cast over the stones in a never-ending loop. Oya’s eyes went to Mrs. Venable who hadn’t yet masked her surprise, nor the glimpse of panic.

What this it? Did this mean that the outside had finally broken in. Everyone was aware of the death that lurked outside and wishing to enter. Had death finally arrived?

A silent confused panic spread through the room, laced with worry and fear. Oya couldn't help for join in, feeling her heart pick up speed and adrenaline spiking through her veins. She was after all human, just like the rest of them. She had asked Michael what would happen if she die, where she’d go, maybe now she’ll find out. _If I die now, Michael, I swear to everything I will make your existence worse than what hell offers._ She thought.

“Perimeter alert, there’s been a breach,” Fist spoke over the alarm. Mrs. Mead quickly followed Fist while the other survivors were sent to our rooms for the time being. Oya followed Timothy and Emily up, her room further down the hall to theirs. Everyone knew and if they didn’t know they suspected that they were together. Love at the end of the world.

“What do you think it is? A carrier pigeon?” Emily asked with the sprinkle of hope in her voice.

“Or death has come knocking,” Oya spoke behind her, receiving a worried glance and a sour glare from her boyfriend.

“It’s properly nothing,” Timothy said with faux hope, trying to appease his counterpart. His arm wrapped around her waist as they went up the stairs and pulled her aside as soon as they reached her door. Oya looked away when they kissed, giving them the minimal opportunity of intimacy and privacy, both which seemed long gone.

“Oya could you help me get out of this dress?” The two entered the room, one that was familiar and standard. Instead of a zipper that was usually used on the dresses, there were buttons, small fabric buttons. Oya’s fingers were nimble and quick, they wrapped around them and forced them through the hoop with ease.

“Do you really think it’s death?”

Oya looked up after having pulled the dress down the smaller girls form, letting it pool on the floor for her to step out of. If she spoke the truth or told a lie it wouldn't make a difference. In the past she might have gone with the truth, that death was out there and breathing down their necks, but after spending a year with them she had grown fond of some of them, fond in a way that they stood between her and insanity, between her and utter boredom. She was fond of them the same way she was fond of her bed, she could live without it, it wouldn’t make a huge difference, but it was nice to have. Emily, Timothy, Mallory, Dinah and Gallant were all nice to have, and sometimes Coco.

For a while, she had wondered if the knowledge of their possible deaths and Michael’s return to her, affected the way she thought of them. If the possibility of getting out of here without them stood as a roadblock to develop affections towards them further than acquaintances. Or if it was just her preferring the company of a few with actual intelligence were just how she was.

She did always prefer plants over people.

“No,” She spoke, watching Emily pick up her dress and place it on the bed while she rolled her neck. The corset looked too old on her, like a child playing dress up of a time that should have been forgotten. Oya fucking hate the Victorian gothic theme Mrs. Venable had decided on and from what she knew Emily agreed. “I don’t think it’s death. Mrs. Mead and Fist are here to protect us, they have weapons. Beside, remember last time? It was The Cooperative with its messenger pigeon and before that, it was you and Timothy.”

“You don’t think it’s people, do you?”

She felt herself falter, brows furrowing at the question and the strange pang that tugged in her chest. “No, I don’t think it’s people either.”

Oya left but only reached the end of the hall before a scream tore through the air, repelling against the stone and carrying through the outpost. Before she knew of it, Oya was running back towards Emily’s room intent to know what had caused the disturbance and more so because curiosity was one of her biggest adversaries. Not much happened in the outpost so when anything _did_ happen she wanted front row seats.

Timothy had reached Emily before her, holding her against his firm chest, with arms wrapped around her protectively while they stumbled back onto the bed, feet up. Twisting and turning on the floor were snakes, most of them dark but a few white.They slithered across the floor in a clove. Unafraid, she walked into the room and bend down to grasp the snake that slithered along her skirt. Her grip was firm and unrelenting, no matter how much it hissed and how hard it twisted around her wrist, she would not let go.

Fist burst into the room only to take a few steps back as she discovered the snakes, followed by Mrs. Mead and her bellowing voice. “What the hell is going on in-,” her question was answered by hisses. Her eyes landed on Oya with a snake in her grip, confusion eating at her features.

“I thought everything outside was dead,” Fist said eyes raking over the snakes only for them to land on Mrs. Mead.

“God knows how deep they went after the blast,” Mrs. Mead answered taking the axe from Fist. “Maybe they came through the sewage or ventilation system.”

“If anything were to survive the blast and radiation it would have been cockroaches, not snakes,” Oya mumbled, looking at the black snake hissing at her. Its scales reflected the candlelight.

“H-how did you do that?” Emily stuttered and let out a squeal when Fist picked up a thin grey snake that came all too close for her liking. Mrs. Mead looked up at Oya interested in her answer, as she should be. It’s not every day a botanist picks up a snake as if it were nothing.

“I had a pet snake once,” Oya shrugged, sticking closer to the truth to make the lie more believable. Just like Michael had done her botany. “And every once in awhile you come across snakes when working in nature. Be careful, they’re poisonous.”

The head of the axe cut through the snake, partening its head from its body. This were to be the fate of most of them, hacked to pieces, while a few lucky ones were thrown in a pillowcase and taken somewhere else. It wasn’t until there were no snake alive or in the pillowcase before the greys were sent in to clean up.

“Pet snake?” Mrs. Mead spoke with skepticism.

“Yes.” With that Mrs. Mead and Fist walked away. Oya was left starring after them. Indeed if there were anything to survive it was cockroaches not snakes. This was equally concerning as it was interesting. Snakes had always been a symbol of cycles and rebirth as well as balance and danger, but most of all they were her symbol. Whatever they were doing there it meant something, something she was soon to find out.

They gathered around the dinner table as usual but this time snake was on the menu and even though Oya cared for snakes she wasn’t going to turn down a proper meal for the first time in ages. There were a restlessness lurking over them, hanging in the air. Of course Venable remained tightliped about what happened earlier but ensured their safety.

“I have a rule against eating things with no legs or too many legs,” Coco complained loudly sitting light a pouting child. Andre was quick to rebuke but by that time Oya had already tuned out. It was dull, the conversation, the constant nagging and going in circles. Honestly now that there were snakes here she might just up and poison all of them. She might hear what they say but it was only on the surface, instead she was going over possible ways for the snakes to have gotten in or even survived.

“So who’s in your office?” Emily asked. The air was sucked out of the room, eggshells laid out on the floor waiting to be crushed under someone's heel, this time Emily's. It caught everyone's attention including Oya’s. So it was a person.

Mrs. Venable narrowed her eyes, stare cold as ice and threatening. “I beg your pardon?”

“The alarms went off before and someone came inside,” Emily continued. How she obtained that information eluded Oya but it seemed like she wasn’t the only one hiding in the shadows and obtaining information. Venable glared through the room with her mask of superiority, grasping at the reigns of control and order. A match could light the room ablaze, the fire of change hidden behind an unlit match, one each of them were holding. But with the match came the chance of a bullet hole.  

“Who else is here?” Timothy asked with a voice filled with persistence. The boy had balls, now we just had to wait and see if he got to keep them.

“All questions will be answered in due course,” Venable slickly averted, her cane tapping against the floor as it always did, sending a wave of chills down each of their spines. Tap! “Eat.”

Collectively they all removed the lit from the plates, the expected sight of snake soup turned into a literal living nightmare. The snakes that had once been bits and pieces were somehow now slithering over the dinner table followed by a corus of skittering chairs and squeals, not all coming from the women. The snake that coiled in her soup hissed and made attempt to skitter across the table but Oya caught it by the head as she had done earlier before rising from the table and stepping back. The snake wrapped around her wrist. Dead snakes don't just come back to life.

He was here, he had to be here.

 

* * *

 

Gathered in the library, everyone waited in quiet anticipation so thick you could cut it straight out of the air.  Oya was placed between the loud and annoyed Coco and the failed revolutionist Gallant. Even the greys that were usually shuffling around in the shadows now stood gathered along the walls of the room, waiting for what came next. Overlooking all of this were Venable herself, of course, eyes ice and stone set in the mask of superiority.  

Her fingers tickled with adrenalin, heart pumping profusely as the seconds drawed out feeling like ages. She knew, even before he ever stepped in the room, that he was there, the one she wanted to strangle for making her wait at the same time wanting to just bury her face in his chest and draw in the familiar scent of allspice. Most of all she looked forward to watching how the others would react to his presence.

The echoes of footsteps rang out, creeping along the floor of the hall and ending in the middle of the room. When his presence caught up with the sounds of his steps her heart stopped within her chest. Her mask of stone and mild indifference hiding her thoughts from the world around them.

All eyes followed him while his eyes remained on Mrs. Venable whose expression remained closed of and cold until he was standing right beside her. It was strange to see her falter, to see her mask crumble under his unwavering gaze.

Michael’s aura was predatory, dominant. It demanded respect and attention. His hair was longer, much longer, and more golden that she remembered. It was as if during the time from where he send her away he had fallen into who he was, he seemed more comfortable.

“My name is Langdon and I represent the Cooperative,” he spoke calmly with the same drawl she had missed. Hearing his voice made it all reality, she had imagined this for so fucking long and now when it happened it ignited the anger that burned within her for so long. Still she remained perfectly in place, not storming up to push in into the fire or break the glass vase on the table to cut him up with, no for he had given her a task, a role to play and she damn well were going to play it to the fullest.

“I won’t sugarcoat the situation,” he continued, passing his eyes slowly over each person. Andre looked positively starving and Michael would be the one snack in the room. It didn’t go unnoticed that every single person seemed drawn by him, some more than others. His beauty was after all one of the greatest weapons. “Humanity is on the brink of failure. My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilised life on earth.”

The air seemed to still, become colder at his words despite the fire burning behind him. It cast an orange aura around him lighting him up in either hellfire or a halo depending on one's point of view.

“The three other compounds in Syracuse, New York, Beckley, West Virginia and San Angelo, Texas, has been overrun and destroyed.” Oya glanced at Venable who looked troubled at the information and of course she would. It have her a bitter sadisfaction to see the glimpse of panic on her face. Shivers went through the room. “We’ve had no contact from the 6 international outposts but we are assuming that they too have been eliminated.”

“What happened to the people inside?” Timothy asked suspiciously.

Michael rolled his head towards him, drawing out the tension before answering. “Massacred.”

For a moment it was as if every single person within the room had been douched in ice water, frozen at Michael’s disturbing words and the realization that it could every well be them next. Oya couldn’t blame them, his words even made her feel the shiver.

“The same fate that would befall all most all of you.”

“Almost all?” Mallory asked with raspy voice and faltered under the gaze of the others. Once more she proved herself to me more than what she presented.

“In the knowledge that this very moment might occur we build a failsafe, The Sanctuary,” Michael answered calmly.

“The Sanctuary?” Coco said not masking her skepticism.

“The Sanctuary is unique,” Michael elaborated. “It has certain security measures that will prevent overrun.”

“Excuse me, Sir, but why weren't we given them?” Mrs. Mead asked worry painting her features while Venable looked positively furious. As well as the mask of superiority fit Venable every once in a while her eyes gave her away.

“That’s classified,” Michael shut her question down with the wave of his hand that elegantly raised through the air. Movements were like a cat or a trained ballerina, it was elegant and polished. “All that matters is that The Sanctuary will survive so that the people populating it will survive so humanity will survive.” He made it seem so normal and that was possibly what disturbed the others so much, how he seemed almost indifferent to annihilation.

“Who are the people who are populating it?” Now it was Andre’s turn to ask a question, his eyes no longer eating Michael up now that the realisation of the severity of the situation had come.

“Also classified,” Michael answered with annoyance. “However, I’ve been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us.”

Hope bloomed like a flower and spread like wildfire. It rippled through the room transformed into small whispers. Like birds they chippered and Oya participated in the role she had created for herself.

“The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning teknike we like to call - _cooroperating_. I will then use the information gained to determine if you belong.” His eyes traveled through the room drinking in every expression. Every one of them but hers. Not once had he looked at her and it only made the fire within her chest burn more wild. It was irrational of her, she knew his plan, she knew her part, but after being deprived for so long irrationality became rational.

“What is this, the hunger games?” Coco began, her voice sounding like nails on a blackboard. Oya breathed out and leaned back, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Coco was shallow, superficial and downright childish. Somehow her ego was bigger than her dead father's bankbook. “ _This is bullshit!_ ”

Michael lifted his eyebrows and glared at her with utter indifference while she continued her tantrum. “I paid my way in here and that is the only cooperating I plan on doing.”

“You don’t have to sit for questioning,” Michael simply answered with a nonchalant like none other. He couldn’t care less, she could drop dead right in front of him and he’d simply walk over her body on the way out.

“What happens if we don’t?” Andre braved to question.

“Then you stay here and die.” Nonchalance turned to annoyance once more. It was made obvious that if they wanted to survive they didn’t have a choice. He could walk out of here with all of them or none of them and from what he must think by now, the former were the prefered choice.

With minimal hesitation Gallant almost exclaimed, “I volunteer to go first.” And efficiently beat everyone to the punch. The bleached blond looked wide eyed at Michael.

“And so you shall.” The air in the room had become tense again, if it had ever chanced. The usual tension had been swallowed up by impending doom sprinkled with bits of hope. Oya dried her sweaty palms on the purple fabric and swallowed, annoyed with every single person in the room, most of them for falling into what Coco had once taught her ‘a thirst trap’, what she herself would have called desire for someone who stood as a gatekeeper between life and death. She was annoyed at their simplicity, human stupidity, but most of all for feeling it herself. “Process should only take me a couple of days, so…-you won't be kept in suspense forever.”

It happened then, their eyes met and she felt electricity shoot through her. It was but a moment, a leaf in the wind, but it made her feel all the more solid and less invisible. It was a simple acknowledgement that she was here and not a specter trapped in hell with these people. _These people,_ she was part of them for now she realised and that was the reason why he had glanced her, just like he had done everyone else.

She got one look and no more.

Bastard.

“For those of you who don’t make the cut,” Michael spoke with ease, shaking his head slightly. “All is not lost.” Slowly he pulled a vile from within his sleeve. “If it were to happen that feral cannibals were to come knocking…” Now the vile filled with tiny little white capsules were on full display. She recognizes them as one of her own product, made to kill without pain, they were always good to have, pop it into someones wine or food and they’d drop dead. Did he ransack her medicine box?

A hint of a smirk formed on his face, smug in the face of death. “Down one of these. One minute later you fall asleep and never wake up.” Now that the severity of the situation had fully formed in their minds, the hint became but a memory when the smirk fully bloomed on his lips, eyes gleaming with power and mischief. He knew he had them right in his palm. “I look forward to meeting each and every one of you.”

With that Michael left the room, leaving them all to down in their own thoughts. Venable looked troubled, unhappy that someone had come into her territory and was now fighting to keep what power she had. She tapped her cane on the floor harshly, the anger apparent, simmering beneath calm exterior.

In silence the world began to spin again. The grey’s were sent away to whatever work they had while the purples remained. Oya rose from her seat feeling smothered by Gallant and Coco. She found her way to the other side of the room, wanting to look over the books once more as if it would magically make a new one appear.

“Pet snake?” Venable spoke with a hard tone. Oya blinked at her confused for a moment.

“Yes.” Venable didn’t spare her a glance and instead walked away, her posse of trusted guarddogs following.

“Well, _smooth_ move asking to go _first_ ,” Coco was the first one to break the silence, turning her anger and discomfort towards Gallant who looked almost innocent. Oya picked out a book with black leather and golden trimms, skimming through the old pages. This one was written in latin.

“It’s an old actors attage, either go first or go last,” Evie commented, her voice somehow more cutting that Coco’s.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Coco bit at the much older lady and thereby stepping into the battlegrounds. Oya rolled her eyes, hidden by shadows and leather, and she knew she wasn’t the only one.

“Are you suggesting that he’s going to pass me up?” Evie broke out offended. Oya had been wrong earlier, the biggest ego within these wretched walls was Evie. Apparently there were nothing she hadn’t done, no one famous she didn’t know and everyone was subjected to listening to her endless stories of hollywood grandeur. She was a Diva with a major D and she let everyone know it. Which was what had made it hard for Oya not to concoct something to slip into her many drinks or even that ugly lipstick the hag maganged to abuse. Sometimes she had even planned how to make her death look like divine intervention or fucking suicide.

“You’re ancient!” Coco barked back, body hopping a little on the plush pillows. If Evie was ancient what was she? “He’s looking for people to repopulate the earth not fill a bingohall.”

“You know, for someone with a mental capacity of a 3 year old I suppose 52 might seem ancient.” At this Oya couldn’t help but snort, trying to keep her laugh hidden. From the look of it they all heard, most of them agreeing with her sentiment. 52? _52?!_

“You were 52 when Elvis took his last shit,” Coco snickered. Apparently this became too much for Gallant as he breathed out, “That’s enough.”

“No no, dear, let her spout. I remember…” Evie began her tale and Oya immediately shot her out. Coco and Oya made eye contact and there were a brief moment of understanding, acknowledgement of the others pain where both of them rolled their eyes at the hag continuing her story.

She put the book back and left the room, wanting to remove herself from the hassle of other humans. The halls were quiet, lit dimly by the candles that cast an orange glow on everything while managing to make every shadow darker and more sinister. She rolled her neck, trying to work out the tension that had build up there, while trying to calm the fire that burned within her. If she had run into Michael right then and there, she’d have dragged him by the hair to the staircase and pushed him over. Or that was what she would like to think happen, reality would most likely be much different.

It was strange being angry to the very bone, the fire burning through her chest and into her bloodstream, but also relieved. He as here, it was finally happening, but _he was here and it was finally happening._ The feelings were two very distinct ones, a mix of happiness and hatred, relief and disdain. The thought of being in a room with him brought a thrill tearing through her soul, but it also made it clear how abandoned she really felt.

Anything could happen during their impending interview. Only time would tell which feeling would win the battle.

  



	17. Apocalypse Now Part II

Oya had returned to the library the moment Gallant had finished his interview. As soon as he stepped in he was bombarded with endless questions to which he all explained the basic rules for the interview and some of the questions. Apparently, Michael had struck quite a nerve, Gallant seemed positively distort, unsure what to do with himself until he found the way to mask his exposed soul with what he did best. He began speaking of the sexual tension, how Michael had made a hit on his… ‘gay-dar’ or whatever he called it, to where Coco began to prompt that he couldn’t possibly be gay if anything he was bi. 

By then Oya had lost interest in the direct conversation and instead seethered in her own sexual frustration and blatant jealousy. In this expiration she walked with intent through the halls, her purple skirts basking around her as she stormed up the steps, only to halt when she saw two hunched over shadows tip through the hall.

The anger evaporated and turned into curiosity. She stepped behind a pillar, hidden from the two teenagers clearly lurking eyes. They snuck into what she expected to be Michael's room, closing the door after them. So they were spying on him… It was laughable with the knowledge she held. If they found anything it wasn’t my mistake, it was with full intent. 

He’d been here for a day and there was already anarchy in the air. Oya made a face between impressed and glee before continuing on her way, a little less angry than before. This was going to be fun. 

The teens weren’t the only ones that had been up to mischief or so it would seem when the day after Oya watched Gallant be dragged away in his undies with a bothered expression upon his face that was slightly concerning given the severity of the action. Whatever he had done he looked pleased with himself and Oya could only imagine what’d he’d been up to. Which she did with a frown on her face. 

Alas, she breathed out to calm herself and rolled her neck again before passing through the hall to her room. 

It wasn’t before Oya was sitting in the library ignoring the stupid conversation between what Coco labelled the other team as the old people and her own team of ‘youths’ over who had it the hardest, that she was to see Gallant again. This time there was something unhinged in the way he held himself, eyes distant and still there with obscure anger. She leaned forward and sipped at the water waiting to watch the show unfold. 

If she weren’t the goddess of the underworld she’d be the goddess of chaos, strife and mischief. 

Evie stopped fanning herself, eyes widening at the sight of her grandson. The air shifted to one more tense and severe, with everyone but her holding their breaths waiting for what was to come. Gallant picked up a glass of sparkling water with a childish pout on his lips. 

He breathed out harshly before speaking. “Surprised to see me breathing, Nana?” Now his eyes were set ablaze, his anger unquenchable. “They usually shoot people for fucking...or,” He made a face at his ‘Nana’ looking mildly manic. “Did you not remember that when you turned me in?” 

Evie smiled at her grandson, though there was no love there, indifferently shaking her head. “No hard feelings, darling. I wanna live and the only way to achieve that is to get rid of these 10 little Indians who stand between me and the golden ticket out of here.”

“Umm, we’re sitting right here,” Coco intervened offended. 

“I knew you were a bitch but I underestimated how big of a bitch you were…” Oya commented earning an agreeable ‘Yeah!’ from Coco and Dinah. In all honesty, she didn’t know whether to be impressed or not by how cunning Evie really was. She set her own grandson up, watched as he’d fall and find his death to be entirely justifiable. If it weren't for how much Oya hated Evie she’d think there’d be a slight chance of her joining the Sanctuary. 

“It is not my fault you can’t control  _ carnal _ urges,” Evie threw at her flesh and blood, trying to justify her behaviour. This was the signal, it was kill or be killed. This was battle royal, what would you do to survive?

“YOU have LIVED!” Gallant shouted pointing violently at his grandmother. “I haven't.”

“Oh yes, you have! You have crammed 10 lifetimes of failures and screw-ups into your 30 years!” Evie rose to challenge Gallant with her own raised voice. Call it a byproduct of having been locked up with them for a year but Oya felt a pang of sympathy for the man who was standing up to his bitch of a grandmother. She wondered if he’d smash the glass on the table and jab it into her wrinkly neck. Gallant wasn’t bad, he was lost and had always been. 

Where Michael might have been cruel or indifferent, Oya could be much softer, it all depended on the person. 

“Am I the only one who makes mistakes?” Gallant blatantly asked to the room, holding his hands up. “Hmm?”

“No, but I’m always the one that has to clean up after you. Let me see 3 expensive rehabs on my dime, fancy lawyers to keep you out of prison. When your grandfather rejected you because of your perverted lifestyle-,”

“Gay’s have been around much longer than you’re propaganda history books tell you so shove that ‘perverted lifestyle’ up your cobweb cunt,” Oya defended with deep annoyance. She always did hate how humans disenfranchised everything they didn’t perceive as natural and made it so it was permanent, especially when it came to sexuality when it is so clearly fluid and more nuanced than black and white. They did the same with cultures and skin colours, and  _ she _ had seen it all with her own eyes. 

“As I was saying,” Evie dismissed Oya’s comment with a scoff. “ your ‘perverted lifestyle’ _ I _ took  _ you _ in! And what did I get back?” Gallant turned away from her attack, swallowing the water with clear discomfort. “Yes, you went and you bankrupted 2 salons and then you snorted the third one up your nose.”

Evie turned to the room not a hint of regret on her face. “I deserve to live. I am the bridge between the past and the future. I mean when those poor survivors arrive what do they know about culture and music, and art? And I will be there to tell them all about it.”

“You’re a rich old white hag 99% of your ‘culture’ is stolen,” Oya mumbled under her breath catching an approving glimpse of Dinah. 

“One lifetime of me is worth 50 of yours! Humanity may be in a sorry state,” she stared Gallant up and down with a diminishing look. “It deserves better than you.”

With a shaky breath, Gallant drew in a breath before speaking. “I should have put you in that motion picture home years ago. The only thing I ever wanted from you was for you to love me and accept me. Why couldn’t you just give me that?”

“Sorry, darling, it’s just not in my nature,” she spoke without regret. It was like watching a painting fading, the colours drained out of Gallant with his last hope of love. Evie patted her grandson on the cheek before leaving, knowing she had devastated him. 

What she didn’t think were that with every last hope of love stripped away, with the betrayal and disappointment she had caused her grandson, she had also made an adequate enemy. Gallant was now a hairpin trigger and she had a target on her back. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge and knowing Michael, he’d see to that it’d happen. 

Disappointment and betrayal make the perfect enemy. In Evie's desperation for survival, she may very well have caused her own downfall. 

“Well it's a good thing you convinced me to bring your nana,” Coco commented with no feel for the tension in the room. Either that or she didn’t care. Gallant ended up falling to the cushions between Oya and Coco who so rudely rose up biting that he should sit on the other couch. He sank until his head rested against the back of the couch, eyes empty and breath still. 

“I didn’t know you were gay,” Coco spoke loudly and looked at Oya. 

“I’m not,” she shrugged. “Sexuality is fluid. I’m not gay or straight, I’m just…” Oya made a hand gesture that was meant to mean ‘something’. A headache was forming just behind her eyes making her pinch the bridge of her nose frowning. 

“That’s a shame,” Coco blabbers.

“Why?”

“Because that means you’d be willing to fuck your way into the Sanctuary.”

She isn't wrong on that one. Oya doubted that if it stood between fucking for survival and death that anyone would choose to fuck regardless of their preferences. It was just funny how Coco thought she’d stand a chance when Michael so clearly wasn’t interested in anything more than playing cat and mouse. 

But the statement brought back the nib of jealousy and possessiveness both of which were irrational and if Michael were to know of it there’d be endless teasing. 

“We can count Gallant out, he already tried it.” 

“He’s right there and he still breathes,” Dinah commented at the distasteful words. “I’d say he’s ahead of all of us.”

“He’s the only one who’s been interviewed,” Coco barked in her usual tone of voice. “It’ll all change when the rest of us is called in. Gallant can’t be the only one Langdon chooses and he most definitely will not be on the radar if I get my chance.”

“We don’t know if it was Langdon he fucked,” Oya injected. Coco waved her hand dismissively before striking up a less intelligent conversation with Mallory. In sympathy, Oya patted Gallant on the head before leaving.

Whomever Gallant fucked remained a mystery, though Oya had her suspicions, much clearer than her co-inhabitants, but Gallant proved not to be the only one who let the desire run wild. 

Through Mallory, she found out that Timothy and Emily had both been dragged away by Venables henchmen followed by the ruler herself. Their salvation came in the form of Michael who shaved them from the bullets that were going to be planted in between their eyes. Why Michael choose to save them remained a mystery but she had the suspicion that he was setting up something bigger and if anything he was just toying with them. 

Soon others were called into Michael’s appointed office Oya awaited her call in the library sitting among the other residents awaiting the news of each person's interview. 

There was an unease creeping under her skin, her heart beating faster each time a resident entered the room. Each had a different reaction to the interview, Mallory being the one that seemed the most jarred, while others came back sexually frustrated. 

“Oya Jeon,” the voice travelled from behind the slide doors, sending a shiver down her spine and straining her heart. She drew in a deep breath and entered the room with her back held straight and head held high, hands calmly connected in front of her. 

He was sitting behind the desk, eyes studying papers that couldn’t possibly be hers with disinterested eyes and waved his hand as he spoke to motion her towards the chairs. “Please take a seat.” 

“I’d prefer to stand,” Oya spoke cooly, feeling the wave of emotion collide with her body. The anger was the most prominent feeling and the one easiest explained. When it burned hot it  _ burned blinding hot _ and at this moment she settled for anger and pushed any other feeling away. 

Michael looked up through his lashes, blue eyes catching the orange flicker and darkening. Oya listened to the doors being closed behind her. The trap snapped shot. She masked herself perfectly with a cool expression one to rival his own. Then a Cheshire smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, eyes swallowed up by his pupils. Slowly he stood, body stretching out before her and suddenly it was as if she was seeing him for the first time in… well, a year. The hair had grown well past his collar, all the way down to his collarbone, with soft waves that fell down around his face. He looked older somehow, his features sharper and eyes more calculating. With a predatory stalk, he walked nonchalantly towards her. 

“Stop.” Her voice was firm. She glanced towards the door with a lingering question.

“No,” Michael spoke with a charming drawl. “They can’t hear us.” 

Her eyes turned towards him once more, eyes burning holes in him. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling fire, the orange flames licking at the air and sending waves of warmth out into the otherwise cold room. There wasn’t a way to be sure if the room would have frozen over or been set ablaze had it not been for her powers being locked away. 

Michael raised a brow at her. 

“You lied to me,” she broke the silence, voice stern and unflinching. “You left me here with these people! Do you have any clue as to how fucking excruciating it’s been? And for what? For  _ spying _ on them?” Her voice began to waver and it broke towards the end when Michael took a single elaborate step towards her. She held her hand up and stepped back. “Stop.”

Michael’s head fell to the side, eyes eating up every micro-expression she made and caught on to when her voice wavered with emotion. He remained silent and she wasn’t really sure as to why.

“That old hag Evie is quite possibly the most insufferable person I’ve ever met, Coco is impossibly shallow and superficial and I’m not sure if the obnoxiousness is to hide something else. Then there’s Gallant whom I’m pretty sure you’ve got all figured out by now. Dinah is elusive but quite possibly the one candidate to put a bet on. Mallory is the only interesting grey solely because her whole character seems to make herself impossibly small all the while glimpses of something else shines through. Dinah’s son is just whiny and annoying. Then there’s your choice to lead this outpost!” Her voice grew louder as she was allowed to revel in the fire of her anger, letting it all out in angry sneers and elaborate arm movements ending in aggressive pointing. Michael allowed all of it. He didn’t stop her, never attempted to. “Mrs. Venable… Why do I continue? You already know all of this, you already made up your mind about them.” 

Oya was breathing heavy, eyes wild and bitter. She could feel the confining embrace of the corset straining at her ribs and thereby her lungs. With each breath she took the shadows dug into the skin of her shoulders, edging out her collarbones that had become more prominent at the lack of proper food. The fire dimmed, if only a little, quenched by the feeling of hurt. 

“You abandoned me here with them,” she expressed and swung her palm through the air, the sound of it smacking against skin ricocheting through the room before the stinging set in. There was a flicker of something wicked in his eyes, an entertained tug to the corner of his lips before he brushed it away with a swipe of his thumb. His cheek burned red and so did her hand. He pressed forward and Oya took another step back swinging the other hand only for it to get caught in a firm grip. Weakly she tried to pull it to her but Michael refused to let go, his grip as iron and yet without the promise of a nasty bruise. Oya spoke again with a wavering voice trying to retain the flicker of rage that had started to slip away. “I-I thought something had happened. I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Michael countered, eyes never leaving hers, ever-changing. At this she was speechless, gaping at him with wide eyes. No? What does he mean ‘no’?

“No?  _ No?!” _ She pulled her arm to her and almost stumbled when he let go.

Her eyes caught the sight of his tongue darting out to wetten his lips before he spoke again. “If I were dead you’d know.” He began stalking towards her. With each step he took, she took one backwards. 

She would have thrown poison at him, spoken with violence that maybe it would have been better if he were dead because then he had an excuse to abandon her here. Instead opened and closed her hand, palm still stinging from her attack but also with a need to be swung once more. With clenched jaws and a pointed glare she spoke. “Tell me, Michael, did you fuck him?” 

His lips parted to draw in a breath, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in the most wicked way all the while his eyes drowned in mischief. His head tilted a little before he purred. “Would it bother you if I did?” 

The question hummed inside her mind, tickled and grew. With another step backwards she felt the wall stop any attempt of retreat, efficiently trapping her between it and him. Michael only stopped when the tip of his pointed boots touched the skirt of her dress, all too close for her liking and not close enough. Oya realised something when she searched his eyes, read his face, almost leaned into his presence and the warmth he radiated. He was like a playful cat but far more dangerous. 

The realisation was quick, the humming inside her mind stilled and soothed the sliver of jealousy that had set root within her by the lusting humans that wanted nothing more than to sink their teeth into him. It should be them that was afraid if Michael were to sink his fangs into them. But it wouldn’t of one very simple reason, it’d give them exactly what they want and there’d be no satisfaction in that. He wouldn’t just let anyone touch him. Even though Michael were the embodiment of sensuality he found no interest in sex, not with anyone but her. Sensuality was a weapon turned towards everyone else. 

“No,” she drawled just like he so often did. He pursed his lips tilting his head to the other side. “You could fuck him -you could fuck any of them if you so desire.” Michael blinked at her intrigued. “But you won’t… and even if you did, I know I’m the only one you’d ever find ease with.”

“Have you thought about it a lot?” His voice was a low rumbling thunder that sends electricity throughout her system. Then she felt it, a tug at her skirt that ever so slowly hitched higher. Never did his eyes leave hers. 

Her heart drummed against her fragile ribs, adrenaline spiking her system and enhancing her senses. His scent engulfed her, the familiar spice pricking at at her tongue that made her mouth water. Her red lips were parted, soft breaths filling her lungs. More than ever before were the restraints of the corset present, she felt that with each breath she filled out the confined only to feel it loosen when it left her again. She was wet, she’d lie if she said she wasn’t wet the moment she stepped into the room but now the ache became more prominent. 

It had been 18 months since she was last touched, her body ached and longed for his touch, it would revel in it. For 18 months she had tried to subdue the growing want for him. 

“Tell me, Love,” he purred, hitching her skirt up higher. Even though the Victorian knickers she felt the heat of his fingers burning through the fabric. The first touch was light as air, trailing up her thigh ever so slowly.

“I-I’ve been here for 18 months, of course, I’ve thought about it,” she stammered wrapping her fingers around his scorching wrist forcing him to stop. It was getting increasingly harder to think, to keep up all the pent up rage she had been building. The castle of anger she had built around herself came tumbling down with one blow from the big bad wolf. 

“All those long nights,” he continued voice lowering. His hand began to move again and she felt herself weaken her grip. “Did you touch yourself?”

“Yes,” she breathed licking her lips while his eyes darted to his. 

“Did you think of me?”

“Yes.” Her knees felt weak as if they could give in any moment. Fire burned on her skin, his fingers leaving a trail up her thigh, slowly inching towards where she needed him the most. He was playing with her but unlike the other inhabitants, she was the only one to taste victory. He could leave her, just stop all of it and it would be entirely within his character, it’d be cruel and merciless, but it would also make for great sex later on. 

But the thing was, she wasn’t the only one who had gone without the touch of someone else. She wasn’t the only one who felt the desire burn through her veins. And by far she wasn’t the only one affected by the presence of the other. 

Michael’s pupils were dilated, blown out of proportions and swallowing up the blue of his gaze. Even though his breathing was normal he felt the air strain in his lungs. When she let him go completely he let his fingers travel to her mount and watched as her head fell back against the wall, lips parted in a silent breath and eyes fluttering. He marvelled at the sight of her, the shimmer of her lips, the flush colour building under her skin, her black eyes reflecting the fire. Under his touch she pushed her hips forward greedy for more, it made a chuckle form in the back of his throat. 

“Did you miss me?” The question was light but it was like having thrown a bucket of water over you. Oya stilled, body tense and heart galloping all the while skipping beats. It felt as if she would surrender her anger to him, forfeit the grudge that had been building up in her, to give him her bitterness of being lied to and left for what felt like an eternity. Honestly, she’d have taken her little plot of land in Korea over this outpost any day. 

“I can’t forgive you,” she began quietly. She reached for him, cubing his cheek and felt that he leaned into her touch just a little. “And I will make you pay for it.” She licked her lips before continuing, eyes softening with affection. “But I did miss you.”

“I’m sure you’ll make me pay in all sort of ways,” he rumbled pressing into her. 

Their lips met briefly, her lips chasing his only to part in a low moan as his fingers circled her clit. The fabric stuck to her uncomfortably, cool everywhere but where his fingers touched. The ache pulsated between her legs, begging for her to just spread them right then and there so he could get between them. 

“You’ve been playing a lot of games,” she purred, fingers hooking into the smooth fabric of his jacket, pulling him to her. “It’s been very entertaining to watch unfold.” 

“There’s more to come,” he said, lips brushing over her jaw, nibbling at the skin of her neck. His fingers travelled downwards, pushing shallowly into her. She could have unravelled right then and there, it had been long since she came finding it difficult to bring herself to the edge and over. 

Michael removed his hand, the skirt falling to the floor now that nothing was blocking it. Oya almost broke out in protest, no not protest more like sobs. A whine managed to escape her quickly shut lips. Michael merely grins at her, taking her hand and guided her through the room. With one tug she swung around, hands harshly placed on the wooden desk in an attempt not to fall straight on her face. Her nails scrapped over the wood when she balled her hands into fists, biting her lips as the skirts were thrown up over her ass, his hands gripping at her hips. 

Michael knocked at her heels in a silent order, making her spread her legs more. Then she felt it, his large hand going from her hip to run down her ass, gripping it tightly. She held back a moan, melting further into the stance. Once, twice, thrice he ran his hand up and down her ass feeling her up before his fingers brushed against the wet cloth.

“Have you thought of me?” She found herself asking before she could stop the words from spilling out through her lips. With her back turned to him she didn’t see how his head fell back, bottom lip caught viciously between his teeth, but she did hear the ragged breath he took before answering. 

“Yes.” 

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No,” he answered. Confusion made its way onto her face, fisted hands turning into flat palms. She didn’t know whether to take offence or not. Or maybe she should be impressed by his restraint. She herself couldn’t exhibit the same level of it. He did have a lot to do after the end of the world, maybe the time wasn't there. But by god the vision of Michael’s firm and slender fingers wrapped around his cock with the look of desire plastered all over his face, with his perfect lips parted in soft gasps, eyes sultry and half-lidded. 

“Oh?”

“I would much rather wait,” he drawled. The air hit her hot wet core as soon as the fabric was tugged down. In the candlelight, she must be glistening. He ran his palm over her mount, fingers wrapping around her swollen clit and pinched. A feeble weak sound escaped her throat, knees buckling a little. Michael dipped a finger into her and curled it, her walls beckoned him further, convulsing around him trying to get more stimulation. Then he added another finger and began to scissor them, each brush drawing out hitched breaths from her, arms beginning to tremble. 

The other hand that remained placed on her hip pulled her backwards all the while bending her further over the table. If anyone walked in there would be no doubt as to what was going on with Oya lying bend over the desk, legs parted and ass bare to the world. When he moved his thumb to her clit she let out a moan, feeling just how slick she really was.

With little shame she pushed herself back onto his fingers, efficiently fucking herself. The feeling almost brought tears to her eyes. “Fuck,” she breathed. 

For a moment Michael admired the view, the sight of his finger slipping in and out of her pussy with a frivolous need. He swallowed at the sight before adding a third finger, stretching her out further. “It’s almost pathetic your need to be fucked, it’s so human.”

“And you made me this way,” she bit back at him, eyes fluttering when he twisted his fingers while pushed at her clit almost too hard. “Fuck, Michael. Please, I’m ready.”

His fingers left her, her walls clenching around the emptiness. She imagined he’d use her juices to cover himself, pumping his fist a few times before gliding the head of his cock up and down her folds. The feeling was enough to make her mewl. In one upstroke, he caught on her opening and shallowly dipped in making both of them hitch their breaths in unison. 

She couldn’t take the anticipation any longer and caved. “Please,  _ Jagi-ya _ .”

Michael pressed into in one slow fluid motion. His fingers dug into her hips with steel and iron, without a doubt leaving bruises there for later inspection. Oya couldn’t withhold the moan that tore through her throat, nails digging into the wood as Michael pulled out and re-entered with a harder thrust. She could hear it, the low grumble from deep within his chest making its way up through his throat. 

“If it wasn’t because you have to remain in the shadows, I’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk,” he grunted speeding up. With each thrust came a wave of pleasure. The feeling brought tears to her eyes, the delicious stretch and the full feeling better than she had imagined for months now. His words almost made her cum right then and there. 

“I’m su-sure,” she agreed. For a moment she was afraid that cumming once would be enough after having repressed the aching need for weeks now. Not even when she was bound in Korea would there have gone as much time by before she had to satisfy herself. Then a savage smirk formed on her lips and she clenched around him as much as she possibly could, almost breaking her trail of thought. “But when all this is over it -it is you who won’t be able to walk. I’ll turn your b-bones into that gross jelly they feed us here. S-see what world you’d build when you’re bound to the f-ucking bed,  _ Jagi-ya _ .” The last word was said in an extra sweet tone.

Michaels strong hand wrapped tightly around her throat, forcing her backwards to him. Her back was arched. The grip was tight enough to make her feel her own pulse but not tight enough to do any form of damage. His breath was in her ear, lips grazing over the shell of her ear. She could hear the smirk in his voice. “I could make you go out there with cum leaking out of you.” He snapped his hips to her making her eyes roll back in pleasure. “Or maybe have your breath smell of cum.” His grip tightened as he snapped his hips to hers, the lewd sound of flesh hitting flesh filling her ears with a low hum of her own pulse. “But I can be nice.” Now his voice was dripping with sweet sweet poison. “So very nice.” She could feel herself clench around him, the wave of hot white pleasure washing over her with vengeance. One hand found its way from the desk to Michael’s fine jacket, clutching the fabric violently as her breath was caught in her lungs. “I’ll let you choose.” 

“C-come inside me,” she croaked out, voice dampened by his tight fingers. She heard him take a strained deep breath, she could almost feel him bite his lip and he tried to concentrate.

“How lascivious of you, Love,” Michael moaned thrusting into her one last time, burying himself deep before spreading his seed. The warmth was familiar, it was strangely obscene, but it felt… missed. She didn’t know whether it was him buried deep within her or the feeling of his seed she missed, most likely the former. Michael released his grip on her, Oya falling forward with a relieved breath, hands firmly planted on the desk’s cool surface. She felt him withdrawal, felt the movement of his seed. 

Oya swallowed before letting out a breath, slowly beginning to redress herself, putting on the Victorian knickers that she’d have to wash herself to remove the cum stains guaranteed to happen. Cum stains she could handle, what she couldn’t handle was her breath smelling of it when she was to face the other inhabitants. 

“You’re enjoying the humiliation of me going out there, asshole,” she said lightly with a faint smile on her face. Of course, he did, he enjoyed toying with people and she was no different, though with his way of toying with her were only between the two of them. The embarrassment came from both of them knowing. 

Michael tugged up his pants, fixing the slick fabric to a point where it looked utterly perfect, while she fought with the barbaric ruffles of her dress to make it sit properly. He had the devil on his shoulder, that’s how he managed to look completely perfect while she lacked her own little devil.  _ He _ was  _ cheating _ . With a huff, she pulled of the purple fabric and swore that whenever she got out of here she’d never wear purple ever again. Fuck purple and fuck Venable for making them wear it. 

Michal sank into the chair behind the desk, palms flat on the surface like hers had been. He watched her as she prepared to fall into the role of Oya Jeon once more. She brushed her tied up hair back in place, the loose strands fastened by tying them into the elaborate hairdo Gallant had managed to give her. Of course, Coco never allowed him to let Oya outshine herself. 

Now that everything was in place, she let their eyes meet. “So, do I meet the requirements of the sanctuary?” 

Michael tried to repress the smile on his lips, forcing it into seriousness. “You will know in time.” 

“Did you miss me?” They looked at each other silently for a moment before Michael went to answer in a smooth drawl. 

“Yes.” The answer made her heart flutter. The orange flames caught his blue eyes with warmth. Then the warmth seeped out and he fell back into the role of Michael Langdon, the one mean to pick and choose who to save and who to kill. Oya let herself find the mask she had worn, let his presence affect her negatively to a degree as a cover for what really happened. She brushed her hands over the material of her dress, collecting her hands there and waited. 

“You may leave now,” Michael said with indifference, waving his hand towards the door and turned his attention to the papers in front of him. Oya rose from her chair, slipping out of the room and was met with curious stares that picked at every seam of her being to see if they could catch  _ something _ beneath her blank expression. Oya decided to lean up of the others accounts of what questions he asked, how he had acted and made it convincing by the jaded tremor in her voice. 

“Did you hear?” Coco asked after the endless questioning. Oya shook her head with a weary frown. The blond woman licked her lips and inched closer, a smile unmistakable smile on her lips. “The old hag died in her sleep! No more listening to her endless stories.”

This surprised Oya. She thought the bitch would never bite the dust… Unknowingly, her eyes travelled to Michael’s closed doors. Nothing happened in the bunker that he wasn't aware off, nothing happened without him pulling a string. For a moment Oya wondered just how intricate a web Michael had spun, just how deep the game was and if she were a mere piece or puppet. 

* * *

 

“These past several months have been difficult for all of us. And perhaps in my efforts to keep us safe, punitive measures have been taken too far. I believe now what we need is a moment of celebration. Comradery. Which is why, this weekend, as a gesture of goodwill we will have a Halloween soiree,” Mrs Venable voiced out loud with a smile on her darkened lips. Coco and Gallant looked at each other in excitement, one seemingly shared with most inhabitants, if not with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. 

Oya was the ladder, finding the sudden need to celebrate perplexing, to say the least. For months it had been the same. No holiday celebrated, no birthdays, no celebration of any kind, just the same disgusting jelly, the same vitamin water, the same music over and over. The sudden change was worrying. Not only that but earlier the grounds had once more been breached and no word of what it was had yet been told. It all smelled fishy, or so the Americans tend to say. She couldn’t help but feel strings were being pulled, and she knew exactly who was the puppetmaster. This celebration was not the work of Mrs. Venable, though she might not know it.

“It will be in the style of a Victorian masquerade ball,” Mrs. Venable continued.

“If only my Nana were here to enjoy it with me,” Gallant muttered, the sudden excitement turned into something solemn and dark. 

“We’ve all lost track of time a bit. And this festive occasion is the perfect opportunity to remedy this. And I encourage you all to use your imaginations,” Mrs. Venables voice rose with festiveness. “To create what I am sure will be exquisite costumes.” Now her voice fell into the same old track, stern and cold. “Attendance is mandatory.”

With that everyone was allowed to leave, most hurrying to make their costumes. Oya adopted the same vigilance and glee the others held while maintaining the slightest sliver of scepticism. Dinah held the same look in her eyes, the gleam of knowing something the others didn’t, knowing something similar to Oya’s own knowledge. The two women looked at each other, their masks off to reveal both of them being wary, before plastering a polite smile on their lips to maintain the mask once more. 

“I know we’ve only just been told of this but do you have any idea what you’ll wear?” Dinah asked, taking Oya’s arm in her own as the two of them headed towards their quarters. 

“No,” Oya answered frankly. “I have the six same dresses in my closet that I’ve always had and have no idea how to transform them into something new. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of wardrobe choice nor any excess material to work with.”

“I find it odd that they chose Halloween of all holidays, though I suppose it falls into Mrs. Venables taste,” Dinah shrugged and chuckled at her last sentence. 

“Victorian masquerade! Couldn’t she just have called it Masquerade? We’re already in the Victorian,” Oya gestured to the tight garments with puffy skirts. She had lived through the times where victorian was the fashion, she had pale strangers come to her for her abilities, wishing remedies or blessings or curses. She had seen the fashion first hand even without leaving Korea and her plot of land. She had lived through many fashions, many invasions and occupations trying to take the land from the ones living there. Hell, she had seen kingdoms rise and fall, both her own and the in the world around her. 

“True,” Dinah agreed. “Admittingly I do look forward to the celebration, we have to take what we can, right? And by the looks of it Mrs. Venable has something in store for us.”

“She sure does,” Oya grumbled, eyes flicking over the firepit in the middle of the room as they passed through the hall and up the stairs. The flames danced with gleeful abandon, the shadows following suit on the walls. Sometimes she had through to put her hand in the flames just to feel the pain but she didn’t. 

“Do you think Mr. Langdon will join us?” 

“Mr. Langdon?” Oya looked puzzled at Dinah who smiled kindly to her, her dark eyes catching the flames, lips thick and pretty. Dinah was a beauty but she was also that ever so positive talk show host through and through. Sometimes it was too much. Enough to make Oya want to strangle her. But there had always been something else, something hidden, a dark tint. 

“Yes, the party would be the perfect time to tell us who’ll join him at the Sanctuary.” Dinah let go of Oya’s arm having reached her door. She brushed her fingers over her purple dress nervously, with hope and something else in her eyes. 

“It is a possibility,” Oya commented meekly, not able to agree or disagree. It seemed to be enough for the darker woman, she smiled at Oya as she headed into her room and closed the door behind her.    
Now Oya was left alone in the hall, the cold creeping along the stone walls, nibbling at any exposed skin. She let out a breath and rolled her neck, heading towards her own room. The door closed and locked behind her with a soft click. Oya trotted to the bed, sinking down onto it with a huff before ripping the leather laces up from her boots, kicking the leather off with a sigh of relief. Those boots might look good but by the gods were they confining and painful. For a little while, she sat and massaged her feet dreaming of planting them on the soft soil, letting her toes dig into the ground as she walked through the garden. She missed it, having something to do, letting things grow and expand. She missed  _ life _ unrestricted but knew it wouldn’t come for many years to come. There was also a bigger part of her that missed her powers, how they flowed through her, how they could twist and curl, how it was mischievous and playful. Michael had them, somewhere. 

Oya took of the dress and kicked it across the floor with venom before attacking the corset hidden beneath, that which was thrown through the air and into the wall with just as much venom. “You better have tons of airy clothe in the Sanctuary and much prettier because if I’m forced to wear something like this again, every fucking day, I’ll castrate you.” She threatened the empty room, trotting through it and into the shower. The warm water relaxed the tension in her shoulders while she washed the sex off of her, fingers splashing water between her legs while the dirty imagery of her interview played in her head. He had looked better than ever, more mature and grown somehow, his edges refined and perfect. In the 13 months, she had been nothing but human he had grown to be the master in a lot of things, he had found himself, or rather, he rested in himself. The confidence had always been there but now it was matured. There was still a vulnerability to him but she hadn’t yet seen it fully, just caught glimpses. She supposed it was to keep level headed, being apart so long and with such difference in power and environment would have changed anyone. 

But they were still connected, she felt it in that room. Oya had been herself for the first time in months and the relief of that was hard to hide. When she’d get her powers back she could finally breathe again, she knew it. 

Oya turned off the water and exited the shower to find a note written on the foggy mirror.  _ Come to my room. _ She wiped the surface clean, revealing her reflection beneath. Her features were sharper and more edged out due to the lack of food. Although she had always been on the thin side, visible collarbones and ribs, they were now edged into her like a crude statue, showing just how little they got. She couldn’t wait to soften her look, not feel so fragile and delicate.    
Oya dried her hair and braided it into a long thick braid, then twisting it into a bun held together with what once was a decorative letter opener, forced between the strands. She threw the towel over the side of the tub, one much smaller than what she had grown used to, before entering her room naked and clean. A dress had been neatly placed upon the covers of her bed, it’s look a mix between Victorian and something along the lines of traditional Korean hanbok. The fabric was much softer than the other dresses in her closet, it was without ruffles and strange textures that was nothing more than a terrible fashion choice. No, it was cut cleaner, with lone soft lines, a neck dipping an inch or two lower than what she was used to, with black see-through puffy sleeves. 

She drew in a breath and began dressing, the Knicks, the underskirts, the corset and then finally the dress. It fitted her perfectly and she shouldn’t have expected anything less, it was after all Michael who had left the dress there. It was a plum purple that managed not to make her want to throw it in the pyre. 

* * *

 

The door was unlocked, daring anyone to enter, with only a few brave or stupid enough to accept that challenge. Oya entered the room, locking the door behind her. She had made sure the shadows had hidden her form as she moved through the halls, no eyes catching sight of her. 

The room was like any other, though it was a bit smaller. It had the same furniture, the same bedsheets, the same dark aesthetic. The candles flickered upon her entry, shadows dancing on the walls. Michael silently entered too, a towel wrapped around his lower body while his hair was tied up loosely to escape the water he had just exited. 

Oya clenched her jaw at the sight, eyes following his every movement as he stalked through the room, throwing the damp towel he used to dry his upper body with onto the bed. 

“If anyone were to have seen me...” She said calmly walking to the wardrobe to pull out one of his black shirts. By the time she turned around, Michael was hitching up his pants. 

“They didn’t, although it would have made quite the tale,” he drawled, zipping up his pants. Oya nuzzled the soft fabric of his shirt between her fingers as she waited for Michael to be ready for it. 

“What have you been planing? You’ve been puppeteering, I know you have.” 

A smirk tugged at his lips, eyes bright blue with mischief. “Now, it wouldn’t be much fun if I told you.” With her help, he slit his arms into the shirt. Her hands trifled over his shoulders, fingers brushing against him as she came around to face him. 

“You’ve made your decisions then?” Oya asked and began to button up his shirt, fingers working nimble. 

“Yes, I will be making the final draft during the festivities,” he answered her with a slick smile. Oya pursed her lips at him, brows furrowing together in a frown. There was the slightest touch, a simple brush of his fingers against the fabric of her dress. She paid no mind and looked up at him, buttoning yet another button. “You will not be joining us?”

“As much fun that may entrail I still have work to do and I’m sure Mrs. Venable wouldn’t mind my lack of presence.” 

“Paperwork even after the apocalypse,” Oya grumbled discontent with that matter. She was now half way up his chest. With a flash of her displeasure shining through her eyes Michael chuckled. “And the witches? They were the reason why we’re here after all, what of them?”

“A few survived the blast, that I’m sure of.” he breathed with a low voice, fingers dancing through the air to motion ‘somewhere out there’. Oya buttoned the last one, prushing her hands over the fabric and ran her eyes up and down to see if she had missed one or it the shirt was crooked. 

“How so?”

Michael smiled entertained and began to fidget with the cufflinks. “Haven’t you felt them?”

“I’ve felt a lot of things, Michael, and most of it were pure and utter rage for  _ you, _ ” she poked him right in the chest in the most childish manner. What was he expecting? That her hair would stand on the back of her neck? A tingle under her skin? Goosebumps? “I’m human, unless it’s in my face and obvious I won’t notice a thing.”

“Dinah Stevens was the voodoo queen of New Orleans before she became a talk show host and Mallory...Mallory is  _ something _ ,” Michael informed with vague interest in what he was actually saying. Oya narrowed her eyes at him, folding her arms over her chest and made a displeased motion with her mouth. Voodoo queen? Dinah didn’t seem all that powerful and she certainly wasn’t a threat, but it did make sense why the mask of positivity sometimes cracked to reveal someone more clever and cunning underneath. But Mallory, she surprised her in a way Dinah didn’t, mostly because of the way Michael said her name. 

“Is she something to be worried about?”

This seemed to draw attention from him, his eyes flashing up at hers. Michael breathed in between his teeth and tilted his head. “No, not that it mattered if she was.”

“Because you’re going to kill them.” 

“Actually,” Michael began, a devilish smirk growing on his lips. “I’m not the one to kill them.”

“Venable is,” she finished with an eye roll of his dramatics. There was no reason to get blood on his hands when all he had to do was pull a few strings to watch the whole outpost unravel. And that’s what he wanted, he wanted the humans to be the cause of their own destruction, he simply laid out the tools and waited for them to choose. “I don’t know whether to think it’s going to be a dull party if everyone dies or if its ‘a total banger’ as Gallant would phrase it.”

Oya walked to the closet and picked out a black jacket, helping him in it with ease. Michael released his hair from the small bun, letting it wave down over his shoulders, perfect as always. She was fixing his collar when suddenly he pulled an apple out of thin air, the red fruit catching the light of the candles. Oya paused, eyes growing at the sight of something fresh, it’s sweet smell engulfing her and made her mouth water. Then she looked past it, to the mischievous smirk of her counterpart and withdrew from reach with narrowed eyes filled with suspicion. 

“Is it poisoned?” Now she knew of the lure Snow White couldn’t resist, the lure Eve couldn’t resist. 

“Not this one no,” Michael answered her, taking her hand and placing the fruit in her palm. He could clearly see the hunger in her, the starvation that had cast shadows over her form and edged out her bones. There were no doubt that he admired her, if she wasn’t so transfixed on whether to believe him and sink her teeth into the apple or to throw it at his head, she’d have seen the abortion shine through the cheeky smirk. He admired her persistence. 

“But the rest is,” she concluded and fished out the knife hidden in Michaels jacket. The blade cut through the fruit with incredible ease and she quickly ate the piece  eyes fluttering at the taste. “I suppose this is a nod to the forbidden fruit.” 

Michael took hold of her jaw lightly, bringing her sweetened lips to his only to find the touch of her fingers on his lips as she withdrew. Oya tsked and shook her head, rivaling his own playfulness. “I spend too long on this makeup for you to ruin before the party.” 

“And I, who gave you a most precious gift! You wound me,” he fauxed hurt, hand on his heart as if to underline what he said. Oya chuckled at him, enjoying the playfulness she had missed so much, the ease of his presence. 

“What of the rest of the witches?” The seriousness returned. 

“They could have died in the blast although I’m sure they’re out there somewhere. They’re like cockroaches,” Michael said with such an ease it filled her with confidence. If it wasn’t for the makeup or the apple currently being enjoyed to the fullest, she’d have kissed him like there was no tomorrow. 

When the apple was carved to the core, Michael took it from her thin fingers discarding the remainder in the fire. Oya placed the knife on the mantle before coming up behind Michael, wrapping her arms around him and pressed into his warmth. His scent was intoxicating. 

“We’ll find them. One way or another we will find them and then destroy them,” she assured him and tightened her grip to emphasize. Although she couldn’t see him, a rumble tingled through his back and into her. He turned to her, her hands working around his movements and landing on his chest as he came to face her. 

“I think it’s time you wear this,” he said and held up a stone black as obsidian framed by silver so that it hang as a pendant from a chain. It was beautiful. Oya touched the stone and felt a tingle at her fingertips, warmth radiating off what should have been cold. She recognized it instantly. 

Michael opened the chain and led the parts around her neck, the black stone standing out against her otherwise pale skin, lacking the touch of the sun and health of nourishments. It almost hummed against her chest. Was it as alive for him as it was for her? Michael’s hands came to rest against her neck, fingers tracing soft patterns on her skin while he angled his head towards her. “You will know when it’s time to break it.”

“Thank you,” she breathed softly feeling closer to freedom than what she had felt in a long time. 

* * *

  
  


Everyone had on their finest attire and masks placed upon faces. Oya watched as they were all drawn to the perfect red apples that had been rolled in like fine dining to be placed in the small tub of water. They had all drawn in a breath of the sweet smell, mouths watering. She had watched them with amusement and played her part as well. Gallant was right about the symbolism… Something that’d soon turn to irony. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt,” Mallory introduced from above in the most expanced way possible clearly tired of Coco’s bullshit. Coco stepped out onto the balcony, lips painted in a heart shape and hair rising so far up from her head it reminded her of the elaborate headpieces back in Korea once upon a time. She stood as Marie Antoinette, or a watered down version anyway. The hair was impressive, even she had to admit that. 

“Mhm! Can we clap please, thank you!” Gallant implored for people to clap at his masterpiece, clapping his own hands in the face of others to push their own actions. Oya joined in, eyes following the girl down the stairs. 

“You did that?” Mrs. Mead asked in astonishment. 

“Without a blow dryer sometimes I even astonish myself,” Gallant beamed with confidence.    
Clack, clack, clack, the erie sound of Mrs. Venables cain beating against the tiles traveled through the hall and into the library. It was a clear indicator of what came next. The claps slowly died out but Coco didn’t realise the shadow that had fallen upon her, not before Mrs. Venable leaned in beside her ear and said ‘boo’. Coco jumped in chock, the light teasing air within the room now tense with the usual kind of cold that followed Venable everywhere. Intimidation was the perfume she wore.  

“Tonight is all hallows eve,” Mrs. Venable began after Coco had scuttered away like a small mouse, the longing for the spotlight already showing upon her face. Oya breathed in, quietly moving into the shadows.  “-Which marks the beginning of the dark half of the year, when the boundary between this world and the other thins, and lost souls pierce the firmament desperate to find their way home. It is a night to remember the dead and there have been far too many to mourn.” A chilled quiet formed within the room, the losses waying heavy on their souls. Oya couldn’t count herself a mourner, she had lost far too many and the people that had been alive not long ago, were all mere specters, mere thoughts. 

“But also to celebrate,” Mrs. Venable continued with a smile on her lips. “That we have yet to join them.” The tap of her cain began anwe, Venable passing through the room with the air of superiority surrounding her, shoulders almost razorsharp with the edge she had on them. “We delight in the small things, that were once taken for granted. To eat, to drink, music and dance. Everyone! -and I mean everyone, should savour this night as if it were their last.”

Oya wanted to burst out laughing or quite maybe just yell. Venables whole speech were littered with cues and indications, like any villainous speech. The idea of throwing one of the candles at the redhead crossed her mind, but she remained quiet, the itching in her fingers never subsiding. It was a speech Michael would have liked, just for the fact that he knew exactly what was going on. He’d love the irony, appreciate it even. In this instance, she didn’t. 

The music began, a new song and slowly the room began to move, bodies dancing throughout the space. Oya herself began to sway, taking a glass of sparkling water that quite honestly tasted like ass. Timothy and Emily swayed together, eyes connected in loving gaze. It was nice, she had to admit that, regardless of the end in sight. 

“It is bewildering is it not?” Mrs. Venable said approaching Oya, whom eyed her over the rim of her glass nothing how revived the woman before her had become by the decision to play god with her own garden of Eden. Venable would present herself as God and the snake lureing starved humans to their own ruin. Poetic. “What little it takes to change everything, something so simple as apples.” 

“I believe the promise of hope is what brings this change,” Oya voiced, fingers tapping with the rhythm on the glass. Venables eyebrows rose slightly, dark eyes fiery. 

“Hope?”

“Hope is the smallest of things, it’s almost impossible to get rid of and it brings the biggest of change with it. Hope, want, desire, they all set root and grow.” 

“And Mr. Langdon brought all of this? Hope? Want?  _ Desire _ ?” The way she says the word, like it burns her mouth and leaves nothing but ash. Venable had always been opposed to desire, it was so easy to see in the way she gripped at control that desire was the fundamental of which the world was brought to ruin. That desire was the thing that made everyone who possessed it no better than rats. They were beneath her, those who were controlled by it and she was so far above because she was in control. 

“Mr. Langdon brought many things, didn’t he?” Oya asked, following Venable through the room. They walked slowly, with sure steps although Oya trailed a few inches behind letting Venable control the pace. There was no need to look at the taller woman, she already knew the look of loathing upon her face mixed with the knowledge that she was soon to be rid of the thing she found so displeasing. “There’s been desire.” Oya said looking out into the room. “There’s been want.” They passed Mrs. Mead by the radio. “There’s been hope…All of this brings chaos of course, and this unabided is what brought the world to its knees, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Venable looked slightly surprised halting. “The old world was built on desire and the constant need to fulfill it. There was no control. People just did whatever they wanted. They were without discipline and those who was supposed to be the authority disregarded rules and mismanaged entire countries.” 

“The world was ended because of men like him.” Venable looked over Oya with contemplation the younger girl giving no nod to her own thoughts. She wasn’t sure if Oya was taunting her, if the girl had some sort of knowledge and was now just toying with her or if she revealed for the first time her true thoughts. To her Oya had always been dubious, her intentions had always been unclear, she was a mystery that presented herself as simply another body that inhabited the place and her file had revealed nothing out of the ordinary. 

Then Oya continued. “So why should we follow him?”

“I am not sure what you are saying, Miss Jeon,” Venable said ambiguously. “Do you not believe in the Sanctuary? Or do you not believe you’ll get in?”

“I am as sure as my position as any,” Oya said. “But these days it’s hard to know who to trust.” 

“Indeed, which is why it makes me question your intentions. You’ve never been interested in the politics of this place, while the others have thrown their childish fits you’ve remained quiet. Now, however, you’ve decided to voice your views. You say men like him were the cause of the apocalypse and yet you’re willing to put your life in his hands?” Venable shook her head, eyes dark with fiery teeth ready to sink into any weakness presented. It was admirable what she was willing to do to be the queen, paving the way to her kingdom with the corpses of those who got in her way. 

“For survival, I’d do anything.  _ Wouldn’t you _ ?” Oya answered with a tone Michael would have been proud of, the same nonchalant mocking he had mastered so well. Venables eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that why we’re here?” 

Oya send Venable a sweet innocent smile before turning around and joining Gallant and Coco on the dance floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Venable return to where Mrs. Mead was, the two clearly sharing a few unknown words. If Michael had been there he would have been proud. 

Mrs. Venable was a fox in sheep's clothing but there were other bigger and more dangerous creatures mimicking sheep as well. 

A dark tall figure entered and began dancing with Coco. It wasn’t Michael that she was sure of but it could be one of this tricks, Oya simply shrugged and joined Dinah by the fire, chatting together as the mood began to brighten even further. It wasn’t before Coco’s disappearance down dim lit hall that Oya excused herself, disappearing as well. She had done her part, she had shown her face and now was the time to withdraw into the shadows while the attention was elsewhere. 

“Let’s begin the bobbing for apples!” Mrs. Mead voiced out loud, turning down the music and gathered with the others around the small body of water. Oya looked over her shoulder one last time before walking to her own room. 

Death had been invited in with open arms, a feast was thrown as a welcome and now was the time kiss death on the lips and take his hand for the festivities were for a goodbye and another world awaited. 

* * *

 

When the door opened and Mrs. Venable and Mrs. Mead entered, Oya stood by Michael, she had one hand that rested on his shoulder in a familiar touch. Already she could feel the hardened glare of Mrs. Venable, the eyes that cut like glass and pricked at her back. The cane tapped at the floor, one after another until it came to a rest and then the door clicked closed. 

“Ladies I’m a little busy right now formulating my selections,” Michael voiced with a nonchalance Oya couldn’t match. She was after all human and her body reacted to the threat of these people by sending a spike of adrenaline through her body even though her mind knew that Michael wouldn’t let anything happen to her. 

“This won’t take long,” Venable said with a cold venom. Oya turned to face her, mild entertainment showing on her face. Venable’s eyes cracked to her the hostility almost unnerving. Michael shut the laptop gently, turning towards the intruders with the same nonchalance that he had spoken with. 

“What’s this?” Michael asked with faux obliviousness, one that tugged at the corners of Oya’s mouth as Venable narrowed her eyes at him. The cane clicked as she came closer, invading the space of the two. 

With one last click of her cane Venable answered with a victorious smirk. “We’re making the selections now, Mr. Langdon.” Her eyes traveled to Oya with sharp accuracy, the anger towards the other woman apparent. “I see you really would do anything for survival, Miss Jeon. I will admit, I am a little disappointed by your choice, you were after all supposed to be the smart one…. But you’ve made your choice.”

“And so have you,” Oya responded in a tone equal to Venables. 

Venable drew in a unbothered but still strained breath before speaking, her eyes once more on Michael, who remained in his mask of faux confusion and obviousness. It was so apparent that it was faked. “And I’m afraid neither of you made the cut.”

Oya and Michael looked at each other and burst into chuckles that was neither warm or friendly but rather mocking. It was hard to keep the chuckle in when faced with someone who thought they were the puppeteer when in reality they had as many strings as the ones they thought they controlled. Venables power had been as superficial as Michael’s confusion. 

“I’m sorry, I wanted to let you have your moment but I just couldn’t hold it in,” Michael said carelessly. He could be looking down the barrel of a gun and  _ know _ it’d not be enough to take him down. Venable thought herself superior in the face of a god. That was better entertainment than what she had seen the last year. Still the arrogant smirk remained on her dark lips. 

“You think this is funny?”

“I think I’m impressed, Mrs. Venable,” Michael answered. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” Stretching his body to the fullest of his height, Michael stood. He glanced at Oya before returning his eyes towards the enemy. “You passed the test. You’re perfect for the sanctuary.” 

The woman behind him made a face of disagreement but remained silent. If Michael wanted her to go with them, then she’d accept it but that didn't mean she’d like it. Maybe he’d forgive her for killing Venable because that certainly would be the case if Oya had to live with that wretched woman for the rest of her human life. But of course, the woman she knew would never agree to fall in like under the heel of a man like Michael, any man actually. 

“Mrs. Mead,” Venable breathed with annoyance. The smaller woman with ink hair and paper pale skin fished a gun out from under her jacket, the sound of it clicking following quickly after. With her human body, Oya reacted to the sound, a wave of goosebumps washing over her. Unconsciously she stepped behind Michael, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket, the motion of it without a doubt known to Michael. She knew he felt her. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Michael warned and by doing so extending another chance for survival. He wouldn’t give another one. Venable’s smirk grew, the fire in her eyes burning bright by the victorious end in sight. 

Michael tilted his head towards Mrs. Mead, brows rising in anticipation. By this show of what some would call carelessness but in reality a certainty, Oya felt a boost of confidence. It was strange to watch Mrs. Mead with her ghosty blank expressions as if a million thoughts were going through her head. 

The delay became too much and Venable’s delight turned to impatience. “Mrs. Mead.” Venable turned to glare at her companion but found that the gun was now pointed at her. Before she could register it went off, the expression of her face changing to surprise and then betrayal. One Oya recognized all too well. The sound of the shot resonated through the room and ran a cold finger down her spine. The air smelled and tasted metallic, a small gush of blood exploded into it. 

Oya couldn’t help but breathe relieved, the joy of seeing Venable fall from her pedestal to lie on the ground among all those she had killed. If she believed in karma this would be it. But there were also surprised bubbling within by the reveal that Mrs. Mead had been the one among all of them to protect her. That she hadn’t seen coming. 

Mrs. Mead, however, looked as shocked as Venable, her actions a complete surprise to herself. She shook at it, body trembling while she watched the woman she had thought she was to protect now lying dying on the ground, gasping for air as she drowned in her own blood.”I don’t know why I did that. I was always so loyal to her.”

Oya felt sympathy for the woman but remained standing in silence while Michael crouched down to look Venable in the eyes as life left her. Rarely had she felt pleasure to watch life leave a person but a few occasions changed that. 

“It’s alright,” Michael said with a calm voice. “You were obeying command. Like you’re programed to do.  _ My _ commands.”

Oya stepped up to him, placing a hand on his back as he stood and looked at Mrs. Mead, satisfaction shining through his eyes and the corners of his mouth turned into a delighted smile. “Did you enjoy executing the poisonous apples plan as much as I enjoyed coming up with it?”

Mrs. Mead was at a loss of words for a moment. You could see everything going through her head, how disoriented her thoughts were. Her body was frozen in time, still pointing the gun as if Venable was still standing. “You wanted everyone dead?”

“I’ve never been a fan of getting my hands dirty,” Michael explained with a drawl. “Learned that from my father.”

Oya looked down at Venables dead body, the bullet torn through clothing and skin as if it were the same and left a bloody gaping wound in her chest. From the looks of it it had tron through her chest plate and into her lung. There were no blood splatter nor any bullet hole behind her, so the bullet was still inside of her. Either she drowned in her own blood or her heart gave in. By the time Oya looked up, Mrs. Mead was trembling even more, bottom lip quivering and tears streaking down her pale cheeks. 

“-Always more fun to entice men and women to dirty deeds. Confirms what I’ve always believed.”

“W-wa-what do y-you believe?”

“That all people, if given the right pressures or stimulus are evil motherfuckers,” Michael continued. Oya made a face and pursed her lips. Whether there was a flaw in Michael’s belief or not, were not hers to dispute. To her humans was oblivious little creatures capable of great monstrosity or kindness, each holding their own value. Humanity was flawed and just maybe a new set of rules, a new world, could make up for that flaw. In chaos, there were always the greatest fun. 

“I-I’m having trouble with this,” Mrs. Mead stammered. “I know, I’m just a machine-,”

“Never say that!” Michael broke, the tremor in his voice indicating how emotional he was in this moment. It cut into her, the sudden realisation that this woman was more important to him that she initially thought. “You’re not just a machine. Not to me. When I tasked the Cooperative’s R&D department to have you constructed…” Oya put a hand on the small of his back, coming up to stand beside him. Michael glanced at her and revealed the tears in his eyes, the pain and sadness in the blue. “I gave them a prototype to model.”

“A prototype?” 

“Someone from my childhood,” Michael said gently. “This one very dear to me.”

It was like she was watching the sun rise for the first time. Pure and adulterated realisation shining through every ounce of her. It looked like a door had opened and all that was hidden behind it washed over her.  

Oya couldn’t help but feel a strange sadness at the bottom of her stomach. This woman was created in the image of someone else, someone human and she had been lost to him. This woman was made out of his pain and sorrow and loneliness to replace the one he had lost. But in the end, to Oya at least, a robot could never replace a human. 

“The beautiful boy,” Mrs. Mead said calmly. 

“That was me,” Michael said back, voice barely above a whisper and breaking. “But I had to keep the most important part of you hidden from your mind.”

“Why?”

“To protect you,” Michael answered. “And the plan. But now it’s time to remember it all. I lost you and I couldn’t bear it. I can’t imagine a new world without you by my side. One of two women who ever really understood me.” 

There were no other way to explain it other than pure happiness showing upon her face. “Who ever really loved you.” 

Michael embraced the woman, hugging her tightly. The sight moved Oya, her heart swelling in her chest. He looked like a child, a boy who was finally hugged by their absent parent that had returned to them. She had seen the boy in him before, seen the loneliness and heartbreak. If a simple thing like a rose or an embrace could bring this sort of happiness, belonging, she’d shower him in it. For all he had gone through he deserved better. 

Michael sat Mrs. Mead down and told her about the woman in which image she was created. The conversation was intimate, between the two, mother and child, and Oya felt strangely out of place. She watched as the two were hunched together, the aura around them thick and warm. Standing back she wrapped her arms around herself and looked away while nibbling at her bottom lip. 

“...Who better than the one person who I never stopped trusting,” Michael said with a gentle drawl. “Or loving.” 

Mrs. Mead smiled, eyes sparkling with artificial life, with joy and prosperous love. Truly, it was like she was looking at her son, with the same proud eyes mothers had when their child achieved greatness. An oddly jealous ache settling in her heart. The woman stood and Michael with her, she took his hands with a gratified smile upon her lips.

“Mrs. Mead, I do believe you’re glowing,” Michael smiled at her. 

“For the first time I feel like I know my place in the world,” she said. At this Oya smiled, knowing exactly what that felt like. She walked to Michael, wrapping her arm around his and smiled at the both of them. 

“Oya,” Mrs. Mead said and looked at Oya who’s eyes widened a little unsure what to expect. The woman simply smiled and brushed a hand down her arm and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here,” She answered. Michael smiled down at Oya only for his smile to stifle, slowly turning into a frown as his eyes unfocused out into the room. The air changed, electricity filling it up making the hairs on her body stand. Not even the candles and fireplace managed to warm the air that seemed to be forever chilled. 

“What is it?” Mrs. Mead asked. 

“A powerful presence,” Michael answered. 

“What do you mean everyone is dead.”

“Not anymore.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before the end. It'll take some time to write the 3 different endings for you, but I am doing my very best. I just look forward to getting out from under the structure of the show so that I control it all again.


	18. The Final: From the Ashes a New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. I've decided not to go ahead with the 3 endings thing, though I've thought about them.
> 
> So here it is. The showdown between Michael and Oya and the witches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter that could be broken into 2 parts but I decided against it.

Oya touched the stone around her neck, fingers tickling with a need to destroy it and release the energy within but a thought stirred amidst the need of that. A thoughtful expression formed on her face, heart thumping in her chest and breath strained. It was a risk, she knew that, but it was one that was carefully considered and most importantly, one that would most certainly work. Oya turned to the mantle above the fireplace, taking the knife that had been previously placed there, before turning around to a perplexed expression on Michael's face. She placed the knife in his hands, once more entrusting him with her life. 

“They won’t see me as a threat,” she explained. Michael turned fully to her, one hand brushing her cheek in a loving caress. There was something feral in his eyes, a spark of wild that made her heart beat harder as adrenaline was released. 

“Show me,” Michael drawled, closing in on her. Oya to the hand in which he held the knife, slowly guiding it to where it would do minimal damage but cause quite the sight. The tip of the knife traced over the fabric. His hand felt burning in her own smaller hand. Their eyes remained at one another, hers filled with anticipation of the pain and his with something she couldn’t describe. The look on his face was one she had never seen before, not fully. 

Oya licked her lips and took a breathed out. Michael kissed her, his mouth latched onto hers so quickly it made her head spin and then the pain came, it cut through her and caused her to hitch her breath ready to scream when Michael swallowed up her pained wail with his fiery mouth. Her hands fisted in his jacket, clutching the fabric for life while her knees threatened to cave in. A tear rolled down her cheek, wiped away by Michaels' thumb as he continued to kiss her until she had steadied herself. 

Michael pulled apart from her, his breath tickling over her ashen face, his eyes fierce with adoration. Her action, the very plan she had come up with, one that he hadn’t even thought off was only showing how  _ right _ she was. She was the sun, the moon, the stars. She was life and death, beginning and end. She was a goddess and he was willing to worship at her alter. “I love you more than you could possibly fathom.” 

“Oh, I can fathom it,” she whispered, hand strengthening around his. With bated breath she pulled the knife out, small whines escaping her as she watched the crimson blade leave her body and the blood that followed turning the purple fabric a strange abugine. One shaking hand came to put pressure on the wound, the blood rising between her thin pale fingers. 

She hissed at the pain and then swallowed it, moving on unsteady legs away from Michael’s warmth that she wanted to wrap herself in. “Give me a few moments before coming out.”

“Oya,” Michael said and brought back the attention on him. “Don’t underestimate them, you’ll know when the time comes to break the spell.” 

Oya nodded in agreement and moved past Mrs. Mead who went to help take the bloody jacket off of her boy. 

* * *

 

“Because you’re special, Mallory, and we need you,” A voice said, travelling along the stone walls to where Oya was. Her steps sounded, alerting the group ahead of her that someone was coming. There were hushed words said before silence. Oya let out a strangled sob, tears pouring from her dark eyes while her lips quivered. Each step sent a jabbing pain through her body threatening to bring her to her knees. How feeble human bodies were. 

“Please, someone,” she cried coming around the corner to be met by 5 pairs of eyes all looking over her weak from. The wall was cold to the touch, her hand sticking to the surface as she leaned against it in an attempt to keep standing, sweat pearling at her temples. “She-she stabbed me...I-I” Her voice cracked. Oya tried to cross the room to them, legs unsteady underneath her. 

“Who the fuck are you, bitch?” A blond cursed at her, bobbing her hip out and placing a hand on it. Obviously, she didn’t find Oya’s presence a threat, all of them must know she had no magic, they could feel it and still the older blond woman, whom Oya recognized as Cordelia, was still suspicious. 

“Oya,” Mallory said, arms reaching out to welcome the wounded woman. “What happened?”

“You weren’t with the others,” Cordelia said with evident skepticism. 

“I wasn’t feeling well and went to my room and-and Mrs. Mead found me when I headed back to the party, she-she stabbed me!” Oya stammered, looking down at the bloody evergrowing spot on her dress, removing her hand to show it’s crimson covered palm before weakly covering the wound once more. She looked up with swimming pained eyes, lips quivering as she tried to hold back sobs. “She said everyone was dead, you were all dead, how are you here?” 

“Are we really trusting this bitch?”

“Oya, look at me,” Cordelia commanded hand taking hold on Oya’s arm. “I know you’re hurt and confused but it's important that you listen.” The seriousness in her voice cut through the pain and demanded attention. If the situation was different Oya would have found the Supreme before her interesting enough befriend, there would have been a lot to learn from one another. But as the situation was, Oya knew that the biggest threat came from both the Supreme and the girl whose arms were currently wrapped around her to hold her up. “You need to stay with Mallory, make sure she survives so that the rest of us can survive. It is important, without her we’re all doomed, do you understand?”

“I-,”

“It’s a yes or no answer,” the bitchy blond cut in, stepping threateningly close. This witch she would have obliterated on sight, she reminded her of Coco somehow. Oya nodded rapidly, stammering ‘yes’ over and over. 

“Good, because we need all of you,” Cordelia voiced sternly with the aura of a true Supreme. 

“You’re on your own with that shit!” Dinah spat at the witches. “I made a billion dollars in TV and all I ever did was struggle the fence. I sure as hell not dumpin’ that strategy here, sisters. I haven’t promised anything, I haven’t  _ signed _ anything and I’m not here to defeat anyone.” Dinah walked with sure steps towards them, eyes fixed on the Supreme. This was the first show of her character, a woman willing to do whatever it takes to survive and come out on top. It was admirable, a trait Michael would see fit for the new world. If she had revealed this side of her before Oya would have liked her so much more than she already did, there was something strong about it. But the act she had chosen would have worked, just like her own did, if it weren’t for Michael’s involvement. Venable would never have seen this coming. 

“Who cares! As if you could defeat anyone with that backwards voodoo shit,” the youngest blond said, arms crossed and eyes rolling with disrespect. What kind of witch was she? Voodoo was among some of the most powerful magic, it was old and ancient. Magic was given by the gods and some of the oldest gods were those of Voodoo. The thought of slapping the dye blond out of her hair crossed Oya’s mind. It’s one thing to be rude and disrespectful, it’s another to be it towards gods.

“How can any of you defeat me when I’ve already won?” Everyone jumped, taken aback by Michael’s sudden entrance, not a single step heard. Oya clung to the grey, shaking in her arms, while her eyes travelled from Michael’s godly look to Mrs. Mead standing protectively at his side. 

“You haven’t won!” Cordelia disagreed stepping forth to face him. The two sides bantered back and forth, neither bending the knee to the other. Hell, Michael offered them a place at his side, a chance to live but the witches were adamant on their plan, whatever it was. What came as the greatest surprise was, however,  _ The _ Voodoo Queen herself Marie Laveau. The false voodoo queen fell to her knees with blood pouring from her neck in a thick crimson stream. And then the Supreme uttered a curse under her breath, the words out of ears reach. The effect of it was soon to be found as Mrs. Mead began shaking in a way that could only be mechanical, limbs stiff as her head twisted to one side and then the other, each time quickening. 

Terror brewed in her chest, the air electric with knitting energy that clashed between the two sides so much so that even a human could feel it. Her stomach turned in knots, worry making its way to the surface and through the pain… Pain that was beginning to be forgotten with each new shot of adrenaline. 

“Mrs. Mead?” Michael barely spoke before the woman exploded in anything but flesh and blood. It was like a bomb went off, skin and white matter flung in every direction, steel and iron shards falling like awful rain. Michael went flying through the air, backside hitting the bannister and tumbling over the side of the stairs. He landed with a dreadful trump, the air knocked right out of his lungs. The group of witches, along with Oya herself, were hunched together, Oya letting out a gruntled groan over the way her body was forced together. Mallory dung her fingers into her arms, breath hitched in her ear. She had the Supremes arm around her protectively, while she also held the wounded feeble human, that cried out a strangled sound. 

Oya shifted, both frightened by the explosion and the sight of her loved one lying flat on the ground, bits and pieces of the woman he considered his mother cast in various directions around him. Neither of them had seen it coming, neither of the had been prepared. It was too late to change her role, she had to stay with Mallory, at least until Michael was back on top until she knew what plan the Supreme had in mind. 

Michael shook with anger, his power coiling around him invisibly. His rage made the air taste of ash and smoke.

The young blond crawled over the floor despite the Supremes voice calling her back. Madison clawed her way towards Mrs. Mead’s arm, one of the few pieces still together along with her decapitated head. She pushed herself to her feet, holding the arm like a weapon and for a moment Oya thought she’d try and knock Michael over the head with it. The result was much different. 

“Sorry about your little toy, bitch” Madison remarked with contempt and opened fire. Bullets sliced through the air the moment Michael turned towards them, eyes filled with fire and lightning. The bullets tore through fabric and flesh alike, the air painted in a spray of red. Coco wrapped her hands around Oya’s other arm, the one Mallory wasn’t holding, her nails digging into her flesh. Oya cursed in Korean at the sight of her lover being filled with spray after spray of pullets, Madison screaming like a warrior. Step by step Michael was forced back until his back collided with the wall, knees buckling underneath him. 

The witch with the strange red hair was the first among them to stand, walking in quick paces over to Michael’s now dead body. He stared into the room, through the room with cold dead eyes. 

Coco and Mallory helped Oya stand, cries leaving her as she stretched out. “What is happening?! Y-you just killed them!” She asked the Supreme trying to get her to reveal her plan. Now that Michael was dead at the moment, she had to stay with them and make sure they didn't win this fucking fight. 

“I know it’s confusing but this is all for the best. We’re going to make sure all of this never happened,” she answered, eyes never leaving the enemy. When Oya looked back over at Michael she watched as the redhead ripped strands of Michaels' hair out by the roots. Her stomach turned. Then she walked over to the group still gathered and held out the bloodied strands for Mallory to take. 

“A personal item. Remember, dear? Focus on it, locate a time and place with it  in Michael.”

“Shed the ego. Disengage from this realm, place myself there and say the words. Tempus infinitum,” Mallory said, her voice filled with remembrance. The witches all smiled at her, relieved that she remembered the spell. Oya, however, frowned in confusion. Tempus infinitum? Time travel? So they couldn’t defeat Michael before the apocalypse and couldn’t defeat him after and so now they choose to change the past? It was cheating, it was forcing the pieces back in place in an attempt to rewrite history. Time travel, how utterly reckless. 

“That’s our girl,” The redhead said with a smile. 

“Bullets alone won't kill him. He’s become too powerful, we have to find a place to cast this spell before he wakes up,” Cordelia breathed unsteady, walking closer to Madison and Michael. 

“I’ll hold him off as long as I can,” Madison said stepping up the occasion. As long as she could wouldn’t be long though. Michael will kill her with the snap of his fingers as soon as he could. 

The group moved, Coco now taking hold of Oya to relieve Mallory of the duty, helping her up the stairs. Mallory ran ahead while Cordelia paused to look at Michael, whos dead eyes stared right through her. The moment they reached the top of the stairs Coco was waved off, the adrenaline smothered the pain and her legs had become more steady. Barely a second after they heard a gruntled angry voice hiss ‘I should have been on that plane!’, the sound coming seconds before the visual of a talk black dressed man stabbing Mallory in the gut. 

Cordelia ran forth to get to Mallory, blood already pouring from the girl's mouth. By the look of it, she had been stabbed in the stomach. It wouldn’t take long before she bleeds out and the pain would be more than Oya felt. The man burst into flames and was sent flying over the railing to fall to his death. The witches attempted to heal their fallen soldier but failed.

“He’s coming!” Marie Laveau yelled. 

“Take her arm!” Cordelia waved at the redhead and grabbed an arm herself. “Oya look out for Michael and follow.”

The four of them hurried down the halls. In truth there was a tiny piece of her that worried for Mallory, the girl had been nice to her and other than being on the wrong side, she really didn’t deserve to suffer a wound to the stomach. Mallory’s eyes rolled back and forth, fluttering shut every once in a while. They managed to manoeuvre her into a room with an odd round tub of water. There Oya grabbed the girls feet and helped lifting her up into the water. Her knees buckled beside Cordelia, hands gripping the side of the tub to hold her up. The obsidian necklace dangled from her chest, tempting with its raw power. She could destroy it now, could flick her wrist and kill the three of them, but a part of her was curious of this spell, despite the fact that a spell like that should never be cast. And Michael wouldn’t favour her if she killed all of them without him. He didn’t kill her enemies and so she shouldn’t kill the ones he had searched so long for. They were his to kill. 

“Come on, Mallory,  _ please _ ,” the Supreme sobbed, holding the injured witch’s face in her hands. Tears streamed down her face, eyes swimming in them, in worry. “Come on, come on, come on! Look at me -look at me! You can do it! You can do this!” In despair, the witch looked to her friend for help, breath shaking. “It’s not working!  _ It’s not working _ ! She’s not strong enough!”

Mallory looked strangely at peace, the pain shutting down her system as blood poured into the water. “I’m sorry, Cordelia.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay! Look at me,  _ no, no, no. _ ” Cordelia was panicking, she was frightened to the bone. With all those Supreme powers of hers and nothing, she had done was working. The Supreme was fading but she was enough to stand in the way between Mallory and life. As in the redheads' own words, ‘they were fucked’. And Oya was finding a twisted form of delight in it. 

“I love you.” Slowly, with a sad and almost serene look upon her face, the woman that had been crying and begging the younger to stay strong, now rose from her position and walked into the hall where she’d meet the devil himself, Michael Langdon. Oya stared after her, fingers brushing against the cool but electrifying stone until it were fitted into her balled fist. She waited with bated breath, the other hand clutching the side of the tub and let its rough edge bite into her palm. The redheaded witch looked after the supreme, tears staining her impossibly pale skin, reddening the tip of her nose and eyes to match the fiery hair of hers. 

Now, out of the view of the redhead, Oya tugged harshly at the stone, feeling the fine chain brake against the back of her neck and undoubtedly leaving a long bruise. The stone seemed to pulse along with her heartbeat. No longer were her eyes that of a scared fragile human that didn’t know what was going on but instead filled with intention, with calculation and anticipation. Cordelia's voice travelled around stone and wood, crept along by the walls and floors, and echoing off to the other end but still were her words out of Oya’s reach. She’d have to rely on her sight and gut feeling.  

“Cordelia!” The witch screamed in agony, crying for her supreme with the intensity one does for family. And that’s when Oya strook. With a hard swing of her arm, the stone broke into pieces on the edge of the tub, the black shards falling to the tiles with the sound of broken glass. The shards gleamed in the candlelight, falling black as obsidian against the sandy tiles, then turning colourless as the power drained from the stone and into her body. 

Her heart stopped as time stopped. And then it constrained only to burst the moment after. Energy in its purest form travelled through her veins with a push of adrenaline, every cell and fiber of her being electrified enough to cause goosebumps to rise over her soft skin. It burned deliciously just as it was cooled with delightful touches. Crimson bleed into the white of her eyes as it always did when feeling powerful enough to have the world in her palm. She felt herself long and ache for Michael, but knew that she had a task at hand. 

In one swoop she jumped from a crouch and into the black and bubbling water, her dress drenching in seconds making it all the more heavy. Her eyes connected with Mallory’s and then heard her worlds. “Tempus infinitum.” Oya replied the same, grasping Mallory's hand that clutched Michael’s hair in a locked grip. As the girl sank below the surface, Oya followed sinking into the blackness and kept sinking. 

There was nothing but black water surrounding her, pressing in on her, asking to be swallowed and breathed -asking to be let in. There was serenity, a calm rarely found, begging embraced and held to eternity and beyond. All past pains, all future thoughts, every memory good or bad, were gone. There was nothing but the black watery abyss. 

But there was something in the distance above her. A thought or memory she needed to get to. A task that needed to be performed. Someone she loved. But she was tired, so so tired. Maybe this was where she was supposed to be, this was the only peace she’d ever get. For a moment she thought about letting go, letting the water into her lungs and let her mind get lost in the nothing. But then she heard him, the drawl that made her knees weak and her heart flutter. ‘ _ I love you,’  _ he said. 

Blue gleamed behind her eyelids, the memory of those Angelite orbs tickling at her mind. 

Her eyes opened and focused on the light now coming from above. An air bubble danced from her nose and rushed to the surface, promising fresh air above the waterline. With hard strokes of her arms and her legs kicking at the water, she fought to the surface, feeling the pressure rise the closer she got. The need to scream scratched at her throat and strained her lungs. 

One hand broke through the surface, then the other until her face shot up with open mouth gasping for breath. The moment she broke through the surface, her surroundings became bright and warm. A breeze danced along her skin and whirled around her hair. 

The first sense that returned was the sense of smell. The air smelled warm, with blooming trees and grass, and a faint touch of the sea. But most prominent was the smell of roses, with every breeze the scent was renewed. Next was the sense of hearing. Sprinklers going off in the distance, car doors slamming and then the engine. Somewhere in the distance, a radio was on, playing some obnoxious American song. She kept blinking until her sight returned, mind reeling from the difference and knees weak and wobbly. 

Oya found herself standing on a sidewalk, her feet bare against the stone and felt the heat rise from it. Cars filled the driveways, some bigger than others. The same could be said about the houses, but most of them were bigger than they should be. She circled around herself looking for anything that could tell her where she was. America, by the look of it. 

She closed her eyes and let her energy wander, crows and ravens above answering to her presence by croaking out the stories that they’ve gathered. One specifically spoke about a boy, blond and blue and beautiful. A boy with a destiny. A boy with bad blood. A boy like none other, born of life and death. 

It led her to a grand house which aura was dull with death. It stood beautiful to the human eye but to hers, she could see the darkness emanating off of it in pulses. The red brings were lined with death and the stained windows filled with sorrow. There were so many souls within, more than she had ever heard off or experienced. The history of it was soaked through with blood, with life. This was where it had all begun. 

There was a tug at her mind, eyes turning towards the house beside it. That house was filled with just as much dismay, but it was entirely different. It was dismay of the living, a woman cursed with a horrid mind filled with grandeur. The house was cold, it reminded her of the same cold her own house had been filled with. 

On the rooftops and in the trees crows and ravens gathered, for every passing minute, another came to be by her side, called by her powers. She stood on the other side of the road, waiting for something to happen, for Mallory to arrive. In that time waiting, she looked down herself and found that she was no longer wearing a purple dress with puffy sleeves stained by her blood but instead a black dress with a neck so deep and exposing it showed the side of her breasts and the shadow of her muscles while still hiding her bellybutton. The fabric was airy and whirled in the wind behind her, along with the additional fabric that was as close to a cape as it could be without going over her shoulders. The fabric was ordained with silver flakes, embroidered to look like snakes, feathers and crows. 

Over her head, a crow croaked and alerted Oya of the boy walking with long strides out from the house that felt like cold and dismay. He looked so thin, with the mouth clasp together to hold in sobs and whimpers. Nose, eyes, cheeks red with crying, tears spilling over the edge of his eyes. Devastated, that was how he looked. Like someone who lost everything and everyone, someone who had no future ahead of them. He looked lost and all she wanted was to wrap her arms around him and tell him he was going to be okay. Fuck, he didn’t even have shoes on.

The sound of tires screeching and a roaring engine reached her ears. Her eyes shot towards the sound and watched as the black car headed directly towards an unsuspecting Michael. The second he stepped out in front of the car, Oya pushed out her hands towards him and breathed out air. 

The boy was forced back and away from the car, his back colliding with the sidewalk in a breathless tumble. Even with the speed, the two women connected their eyes and then Oya tilted her head and smiled. 

In a loud chorus of chirps and croaks, all the birds took wind beneath their winds, gathering in a massive mass of black feathers and claws. It was a murder of crows, an extension of herself, every beak and every set of wings. The feeling rushed beneath her while she took assured steps out into the middle of the road to watch her attack unfold. 

One after the other, the birds swooped down and smacked themselves into the windshield of the car, glass shattering in a web. The tires screeched over the road, leaving angry black marks in their wake. There was the faintest whirling screaming coming from within the car, the sound swallowed up by the birds coming at the windshield. Bones and flesh and glass cracked alike. It was brutal and disgusting. Blood poured over the shiny front and dripped to the asphalt. And then the last of them broke through and into the car with their wings basking and their sharp beaks and talons. 

The blond witch threw herself through the door screaming, her knees scraping over the road as she tumbled out. Oya couldn’t help but smirk at the sight. How her hair was covered in broken pieces of glass, droplets of blood and feathers. Her pale skin marked by scrapes. Then the new supreme clenched together her hands and let out a pulse that killed every bird still alive, whether it was rolling confused around in the car, crying out in pain on the front of it or actively attacking her. A mass of blood and feathers laid atop of the front, pouring down over the side to the asphalt. 

Mallory stumbled to her feet, fingers brushing over the car for support as she got up, hair thrown over her shoulder. She wore a golden crown of growing roses. 

Michael looked at the display from his place on the ground, understanding that the girl with the crown had tried to run him over, while the woman with black eyes had helped him somehow. He stayed silent disregarding the sting of the superficial cuts he had gotten on the way down. 

Oya felt his eyes on her but remained steadfast, unwavering. Mallory shot him a pointed glare before returning her eyes towards the more pressing enemy. 

“How did you-.”

“You’re not the only ‘special’ one,” Oya cut off. 

“Why are you standing between me and him? Do you know what he's done? What he's going to do?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!” She exclaimed with anger and frustration.

“Quite possibly,” Oya answered with an indifferent shrug. “I won’t let you harm him.”

“Then you give me no choice,” Mallory bit harshly. It was strange to see the woman like this, how she had hardened -her skin now steel and iron. This woman who was small and good and pure were now filled with rage and bitter anger that’d only be washed away with Michael’s blood. It seemed entirely out of character for her to want to murder a boy rather than take his hand and offer help. 

Mallory waved her hand by her hip, letting the fingers dance through the air until they stilled. All the other windows in the car smashed into pieces, the glass breaking into small bits only for them to be gathered in the air around her, the glass merging together into more massive shards, all pointed to her. 

Oya’s heart drummed in her ears, excluding the sound of glass slashing through the air towards her. She could protect herself, shielding her with her powers and redirect the impending shards but she didn’t. Her energy was focused elsewhere. Quickly, her arms shot up, childing her face and upper body as the glass cut into her. She felt the white-hot pain as the glass cut over her forearms. When the attack was over and there was no more glass in front of her she looked down. Three pieces of glass pointed out from her stomach, one bigger than the other. With shaking fingers she took hold of the shard, groaning at the contact and then pulled. The tip was about 6 centimetres long and covered in blood. She did the same with the others and found one 4 centimetres long and the other 7. Blood poured from the wound and poured down her body. The glass pieces broke as they hit the asphalt, all but one that remained in her palm. 

Oya looked up at Mallory, eyes stern and unyielding. 

“I’m the supreme, you can’t possibly think you can stop this,” Mallory said. 

“Miss Supreme,” Oya mocked and took slow deliberate steps towards the girl, who moved restlessly from one leg to the other. Behind Mallory through the flesh, bones, feathers and blood were a movement. It slithered from the bubbling mess, curled and formed until it was entirely visible. Feathers had turned to scales and beak to fangs. The snake was bigger than any other she had seen, the skull was as big as her chest, if not bigger. It looked like the mix of an anaconda and a python if it were not for the black scales dipped in red. Its eyes were as black as her own and gleamed in the sunlight with murderous intent. It coiled behind the unsuspecting Mallory. “You think you’re the all-powerful because ascended the throne?” Oya wiggled a bloody finger in the air and tsked. She approached the younger girl like a predator and watched as she began to draw in her power for the final blow. “You’re the supreme, the all-powerful witch.” Mallory frowned at the mocking tone, jaws locked together and eyes burning with hatred and anger. “But where do you think your powers came from?” 

Mallory shook her head confused and stepped back, her heels breaking the glass beneath. It was true that the girl was powerful. More so than any other witch. It hung in the air around her, it was of light as bright as the sun. It was golden and white and good. It flowed around her, tugged at her edges and seams. It reminded Oya of her sister. 

The young witch drew in a breath and lifted her hands in the air, ready to strike another blow but she didn’t get that far. No, for the snake shot forth, its sharp fangs piercing the flesh of her thigh as it’s strong jaw clamped down around her. The force made femur snap in two. Mallory screamed out and stumbled to her knees. The venom in Oya’s snake inhibited Mallory’s magic and left her defenceless. This was what she had focused on, what had drawn her energy. 

The snake twisted around Mallory, its strong body squeezing so terribly that there was a constant sound of breaking bones. She cried as her body was wrapped up by the snake, its body twisted around her hips, waist and torso. 

Oya was now standing before the fallen supreme and looked at her with pitiful eyes. 

A gurgling sound came from Mallory's pale lips that soon turned into wheezing. The snake pressed further. It was clear that her ribcage had broken and one of the ribs had pierced through her lung filling it with blood. A trickle of blood ran down the corner of her lip. 

“W-what h-have you d-done?” Mallory stuttered out, with each word wheezing followed. “You’d l-let him destroy the w-world?”

“The world was going to destroy itself sooner or later,” Oya answered with indifference. “I don’t care much for this one but the next… the next will be made with my touch as well as his.” 

“You’ll destroy h-humanity to p-play g-god?” Mallory gasped at the pain, her torso incredibly small now. Her body sank together, the bones no longer able to hold her up. Life was slowly being squeezed out of her and her insides turned to mush. 

Oya smiled. “Oh, little Miss Supreme, I already am a god.” The smile faded into something more serious and cynical. Mallory’s eyes were reddening with the pressure, blood falling like tears. Oya crouched down on her level before continuing to speak. “Cordelia thought that she was clever hiding you.” Soft and almost sweet were her touch as she brushed a piece of hair out of Mallory's face. “Michael expected her to come, but you were quite the surprise. It’s sad how much you underestimated him, sad how you underestimated me. You see, your plan would have worked were it not for me. Time travel… It is quite the move. Cheating, but impressive.” Oya wiped a crimson tear from Mallory’s cheek. “No one, not even the gods should have that power. When you die I’ll make sure Michael wins. When you die, you won’t be going to heaven nor hell.” Confusion wrote itself across the young supremes face. “It would most likely have been hell, you did, after all, try and kill a kid. No, you’ll be going to the underworld,  _ my _ underworld, and I will make sure you relive you most feared scenario, the thing you dread the most, the thing which hurts you the most, over and over again until you go mad.”

“W-who are you?”

Her answer rang clear. She said it with such simplicity it was almost baffling. “I’m Oya but you may also know me as Ereshkigal, goddess of the underworld. Goodbye, Mallory.” The hand in which she held the longest glass shard were lifted to the young supremes neck, the veins popping with pressure and ready to explode. When the sharp edge ran over the fragile pale skin blood burst out in a heavy flow, running down her neck, over the curled body of the snake and dripped to the ground where it pooled. The snake released its fangs from her thigh and began twisting again. 

Oya rose from her spot, brows twitching as she felt her body react to the wounds, to the excess use of her power. A single breath was drawn in behind her, pulling her attention towards the much younger Michael, with those big blue eyes filled with wonder and worry all the same. He was still lying on the pavement, hitched up on one elbow to look at the scene. With small simple steps she approached him, bloody hands held up in front of her in submission. 

“You-you saved me!” He stuttered confused with a shaking childish voice. Oya sank to her knees at his side, groaning at the pain that shot through her body. Blood was pouring out more frequently now. The pain was nothing though, it didn’t cross her mind as she thought about the boy before her. He was older in body, but his soul was one of a child's. His eyes held the same confused innocence, one that was growing up without guidance, one that begged to be loved. Without a second thought, she reached for him, thumb brushing over his cheek reddened by crying and left a trace of crimson. The motion was gentle, not like the way she had done it to Mallory. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to tell him and warn him about. 

“You’re hurt,” he said breaking her thoughts. She smiled at him.

“I’m fine,” she simply said. 

“How did you… I don’t understand.”

“I know, I know it’s hard to understand but I need you to listen to me,” she began as she felt cold fingers of the abyss ghost over her. “Mallory was sent from the future to kill you. The witches wanted you dead because you pose a threat to them, to the entire world.” At the fear written across his face she paused. Within her chest, her heart stopped and strained. If she told him all of this, if she changed anything in the past, it would ripple throughout time to the future. Telling the boy before her would change the man that she loved. Any little thing would change the future. Pain bloomed in her chest, not like a physical one but rather… emotional. It made her throat strain with unvoiced cries. With a gentle touch, she took his face in her hands and looked at him with importance and seriousness, while he, in turn, looked at her with bewilderment and uncertainty. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you know all of this, it’ll change too much, you might change too much.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, just… just, listen to me. You’re going to have a tough life filled with betrayal, Jagi. You’re going to feel so alone, so abandoned.” Oya began focusing her powers, letting the electricity run through her and into her fingers, letting them warm on his skin. Her fingertips brushed against his right temple as she began to withdraw his memory. Silver began to shine where their skin touched. “Never trust the witches, no matter what… and -and when you’re ready come find me. I won’t understand either but I will in time.  _ I will always be there _ .” A silver flower bloomed when she withdrew her fingertips from his temple. The silver flower bloomed and then returned to a bud that hardened into a pearl. Behind Oya the snake had dislocated its jaws as it swallowed Mallory’s broken body whole. The glass than laid scattered in pieces collected and set themselves in place, the windows of the car shining in the sun as if it had never been shattered. Oya looked over her shoulder at the snake and breathed out just as its jaws set in place. Like parchment in flames the snake burned, ashes and small pieces of ember whirling in the wind to there was nothing left. No blood, no glass, no snake. The only strange thing left behind was Oya herself, still bleeding on the pavement. 

“Oh dear god!” A woman gasped. Oya looked towards the voice and narrowed her eyes at the older woman. “What did you do?!” At first, Oya thought she had hissed at her but when the woman’s eyes shifted to Michael she knew. With one clenched hand, she took hold of the woman immobilizing her completely. 

“Go inside, Michael,” she said softly and let him get up before rising herself. With deliberate steps she approached Michael’s grandma, fist still curled around the pearl and holding her in place. 

“Who are you? What are you?” Mrs. Langdon hissed through clenched teeth. 

“I’m the woman who loves your son,” Oya answered with a hard tone. Mrs. Langdons eyes widened. “I want you to know this so listen closely. You’re going to forget that you saw me, you’re going to forget whatever happened before that made  _ your _ grandson run out of the house in tears and with no shoes. You’re going to forget all of it. But I want you to know that there’ll be a little voice inside of you, one that’ll never leave you and one that you’ll never be able to confess to any other soul on this earth. It’s going gnaw at your sanity for eternity.” Frightful tears welled up in Mrs. Langdons eyes.

“You know you’re a terrible mother. You’re a narcissist who thinks they have any business raising children. You’re a failure.”

“No, no! I did everything I could! I did everything right!” Mrs. Langdon defended with a wavering voice. 

“You did not love him!” Oya spat, stepping so close she could smell the fear coming off of her. “And you will suffer because of it. You cannot hurt him so the only way out is to take your own life, and you will. You were never meant to be a mother.” 

Something inside the woman snapped. Her matriarch mask breaking to reveal the rotten decaying soul of the woman inside. She reminded Oya of her mother. In a way, she fated her the same way. Parents who cannot love their children should not have them. Mrs. Langdon was a woman who thought herself perfect and true, it was written in the way her eyes were, the way she wore clothes from another time, the way she pinned up her hair. She was a woman who wanted to last forever, a woman who wanted the perfect family, a woman who was the cause of her own ruin. The silver pearl formed at her fingertips once more, this one cold and with the gleam of rot. 

Oya let Mrs. Langdon go, the woman staggering inside her house in a trance that’d relieve itself once Oya had gone to her own time. She stared at the house filled with cold and dismay before letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The pearl with Mrs. Langdons memory caught the light as she held it up in her palm and then let it roll off into the bushes. It would remain there until the end. 

The corners of her sight became fussy, black dots forming and distorting her vision. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let herself fall forward, the pavement rising to meet her with a hard embrace. Instead, she found that she fell through it, into darkness and water. Before her were her reflection, with her big black eyes looking back at her. She was naked once more, the dress ripped from her body and gone the moment she entered the darkness. 

When she reached to touch her reflection it reached to touch her. The tip of their fingers met and suddenly she was thrown forward, water pressing in on her, forcing its way down her throat as she plummeted through the surface of the water. Her body ached and shot with burning hot pain. The dress wrapped around her tightly and weighed her down. Beside her were the contorted body of Mallory, with eyes shot open and red, bloody tears running down her face while her mouth was open in a silent scream. Her arms, legs, hips and torso were broken, a twisted lump wrapped in grey. And from her open neck had warm blood once flown. 

Oya crawled weakly over the side of the tub, water and blood pouring from her. The moment she hit the floor she heard the last witch alive scream a blood-curdling scream that send her flying over the floor and into the wall with teeth clattering force. Pain bloomed at the back of her head, distorting her vision even more. 

“You broot, you absolute monster! You’ve doomed us all!” Oya didn’t see what happened afterwards, not until later. Instead, she was engulfed by the scent of allspice followed closely by the feeling of scorching hands pressing against her cheeks and then her stomach. With her mind scattered in the past, the in between and the present, she couldn’t connect a proper sentence. Instead, she cried out jumbled words and sounds trying to tell him the pieces of her mind. 

“I’m here! Don't worry, I’m right here,” he told her over and over, trying to soothe her. Slowly, her wounds began to heal with the touch of Michael, her own energy drained from her body. His blond hair was smeared in blood, so was his face and hands. The suit he wore ripped apart by bullets and drenched in blood and other fluids, with white pieces of what once was Mrs. Mead hanging on to it. And yet somehow he remained the single most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her eyes caught his. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I was afraid and-and I didn’t… I was afraid,” she cried out between mumbled words and sounds, trying to connect with her body again. 

“Shh,” Michael hushed her and caressed the side of her head, eyes filled affection and tenderness. “You did so well, love. You did it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Oya spoke more clearly, pushing herself further up the wall to relieve the pain in her hips. Her bottom lip quivered, eyes filled to the brim with tears while her body shook. What if he’d never understand? The thought made her shudder. “I had the chance to change it all, to save you. I could have warned you, given you a better life, made sure you were never betrayed. But I was afraid! I was afraid that if I changed that I’d change the future. If I told you, you might not have come to me.”

Michael looked at her in bewilderment but still held the same love as before. He brushed wet locks out of her face and inched closer in an effort to calm her. In the middle of her palm that had once been closed in a tight fist, were the memory she had taken. She held it up for his eyes to catch, the silver shining through blue. In one shaky breath, the pearl bloomed into a flower and then withered until there was nothing left. Silver caught onto Michaels' eyes and she watched as the memory played in his head, eyes flickering back and forth as if in a dream. The silver ran out and blue poured back in. 

“I’m so sorry, I could have changed it all but I was too afraid,” she coked out through a strained throat. 

Michaels brows knitted together and his thumbs brushed away her tears. “Shh,” he cooed. “You did the right thing.  _ You did the right thing. _ You did so well, I could never have imagined what you did for me but you did so well. You were right, my love.”

“Yeah?” she whispered and reached for him. 

“Yeah,” Michael answered and kissed her forehead. 

* * *

 

Walking through the carnage that had occurred Oya observed the different bodies she came across on her way to her room. She trailed a wet and bloody path over the grimly painted stones, dripping from her wet clothes. There was the redheaded witch whose head was twisted to an unimaginable point that was only matched by Coco’s broken neck. There was Mallory floating in the tub with her body crushed in a way that couldn’t be described. There was Marie Laveau whose heart laid beside her body, ribcage open with bones sticking out revealing the empty chest. And then there was the blond witch, Madison or so she guessed, with her head blown clean off. 

That was the carnage she observed on her way to her room. 

Oya dried her hair, the white towel drawing a hint of pink from the bloody water she had once been in. Then she changed out of her ruined dress for an airy pair of pants and a black see-through top that had one single line through the fabric that covered her nipples. It was what she had brought with her, what she was not allowed to wear, and now her chosen outfit. 

“Where is it?” She questioned herself, digging through the chest at the foot of the bed. The glass was cool against her fingers, as she fished the small bottle out from under books and fabrics. The tiny bottle was slipped into her pockets before she walked out of the room for the last time. 

She found him standing over Cordelia's body. He too had changed outfit, from ruined rags into fine silk and velvet. His skin was now clean and hair perfect as always. Oya came up behind him, hand slipping over his shoulder before her lips kissed it softly. 

Cordelia was staring into the vast nothing, blood in a morbid halo around her body, hands held out like the usual statue of Virgin Mary. The only difference was that she wasn’t so innocent and she certainly wasn’t going to ‘heaven’. 

Michael was looking at the fallen supreme with contemplation hinted with disappointment. This was what he wanted but now that it had arrived, was it what he wanted? Was it enough?

“You should never have underestimated me,” he mused quietly before continuing with a harder tone. “You were wrong and you failed, if only you were here to witness it.”

“You could bring her back or simply visit her in hell,” Oya commented. “I’m sure she’s there.”

Michael smiled back at her and let out a sigh. “She is and she’ll rot there for eternity but she… Managed to take away the pleasure of watching her fail… And she took so much more.”

Sympathy knitted her brows together, her hand travelling to cub his cheek forcing his eyes from Cordelia’s body to her. “You destroyed the witches. Every single one of them. They’re rotting in hell and if they’re aware they’re there, they’ll know they failed miserably. You’re the one who did that, you’re the one who won. You, Michael, are the victor, the king of a new world made in his image.” 

She was right, of course. He had won the war. There was no longer anyone to oppose him, to threaten his rule or legacy. The world had been burned to ash and from that, a new world would rise. The price had been steep but it had been paid, and if it came down to it, he’d pay it all over again. His only regret was that he couldn’t change the price and bring back Mrs. Mead. Her loss would nibble at his edges. 

Michael flashed a gentle smile at his counterpart, taking her hand and kissing her wrist before walking out of the round room. 

Oya looked after him. He had won but his shoulders were heavy with a new burden. In one quick turn, she knelt down beside the pool of blood and let her jewelled hand dance in the air over it. Faint whispers of enchantment slipping through her red lips, the words dangling in the air and then twirling down with her magic to the Crimson. At first, nothing happened but then one single droplet raised from the surface and into the air quickly followed by more droplets. They merged together into one floating ball of blood right in front of her face. The blood then seeped into the now opened glass bottle fished forth from her pocket, filling it up the brim before being closed off and slipped into her pocket once more. 

Then a spiteful vengeful streak settled in her soul and she gripped Cordelia's fine blond hair in a handful before ripping it from her head, just like that wicked redhead. The strands of hair were shoved into her pocket as well. Then she rose and joined Michael in the grand hall, walking around the round fireplace to find him staring at yet another dead body, this time Dinah’s. 

“She didn’t exactly meet the requirements for the sanctuary but I suppose I should reward for her loyalty.”

Oya mused, lips pursed as she examined the body. Dinah’s neck was gaping open and arteries emptied of blood making her skin look dull and ashy. Her dark eyes were still open in shock as was her mouth. “She’s with Papa Legba now.” Michael looked down at her from the steps, waiting patiently for her to continue. He might know a lot about hell but that didn’t mean he’d know of the figures in it, nor the demigods and various demons that belonged there. His teachers would never have taught him this, they were too busy forming him into something they could use for their own advantage.

“I would recommend not making a new enemy when you’ve just gotten rid of the last. Making an enemy of Papa Legba would not be wise. If anything you should make a deal with him, trade a soul for a soul if you believe she’s worth it.”

“Hmm,” he sounded and stepped down to Oya’s level again. “Such a wise woman I have by my side.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and forced her body flush against his, lips dipping to meet hers in a fiery but light kiss. “Are you ready to leave this place?” 

“More than ready,” she replied, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. Michael snapped his fingers and fire began to climb from the fireplaces with destructive tongues and tendrils, making their way over stone and wood alike. 

In one breath and with one step the two disappeared from Outpost 3 and into the sanctuary. 

* * *

 

The sanctuary was built underneath a mountain, a marvellous mix of old and new. The halls were of concrete, a simple and cold look, while the section in which Oya and Michael lived were much like the house they had stayed in, with floor to ceiling windows showing hardened lines and edges in stone. Their section was off limits to the few that lived there or so Oya had made it. Only the servant robots were permitted. Michael’s office was just before their section, furnished nice and simple, with a rounded rosebush that had been growing slowly in the middle of the room, shielding the view of the door from his desk. Nevertheless, he would always know with precision who came through the door before he ever laid eyes on them. That always seemed to chill the few humans there to the bone. 

Oya and spend the first while getting accustomed to the servant robots there, their presence feeling strangely void with the lack of a soul. She didn’t trust them and was wary towards them, maybe because she didn’t trust the two crackheads who created them. How Mutt and Jeff survived the interviews remained a mystery despite Michael’s insistence that though they were not to be trusted they remained usable. 

However, the one she seemingly clashed with the most was the Japanese Yuu Masaru whose eyes were always cold and calculative, with a stern mouth always in a straight line and high edging cheekbones. She could see why Michael wanted him there, he was everything he wished for the new world. But he was ambitious beyond his stance and ruthless in his ways, she could see it in him. 

Michael stood for the politics of this place and Oya buried herself in nature. 

Michael had constructed a marvellous arboretum. The room was as big as half the sanctuary in its own, the walls made of fine coloured glass to the top that arched as a true masterpiece of a greenhouse. One side held long lines of pots from floor to roof, ready for plants, with a system that could make it go around so that no stairs were necessary. 

And with time and Oya’s fine collection of seeds, the brownfields became green with life. She had marked an area for her herbs and plants, while the rest were to provide fresh food for the sanctuary. The women that were, who didn’t have tasks anywhere else helped her with the maintaining of the food, though they were not allowed to touch her flowers or herbs. And if they weren’t there, the robots took over work. She hated seeing them through the green, something without a soul, without a living cell touch that which was living. 

For two year she read through the collection of magic books and legends Michael had gathered in their private library. For two years she had tried different spells and hexes, made different potions and remedies and worked towards making her own spell. It had been a project of hers, when she wasn’t required to play doctor or queen, to find a way to make the impossible possible. She had been cautious, uncertain. 

Now was the time, however. It couldn’t wait any longer. 

Which was why she was now carrying a bucket with fresh blood through the concrete walls towards the arboretum. The thick red liquid waved back and forth, threatening to spill. Her big white dress vulnerable to the task at hand. 

Minseo, her own personal robot made almost in her image, or rather out of her imagination, was carrying her heavy medicine chest like it was a box of feathers. Unlike the more human robots Mutt and Jeff had created, Minseo was made as a servant, with fine gentle features and a soft brow. She rarely showed any strain unless Oya had told her to switch on her humanity mode. Now she was a blank page following orders without question. She usually kept her like that, unsure what to feel when she seemed almost human. 

In the distance she heard the voices of men talking, walking through the halls with some unknown purpose. 

Oya and Minseo turned to the door standing between them and the smell of nature. Every time she stood there she felt a flutter in her stomach, happy to once again be with nature and to make things grow. It was incredible to let her bare feet sink into the soil of the arboretum. 

The doors swished open, the delightful smell of flowers and soil hitting her nostrils in an instance. The pair made their way inside, locking the door behind them. She had ordered no one to come in and as far as she could see there wasn’t a soul or robot in sight. 

Oya paved the way to her small garden of herbs as the spot left untouched by her nimble hands and seeds. The soil was bare there. She planted the heavy bucket there and ordered Minseo to put the chest beside it. 

“Minseo, please stand aside,” she asked of the robot no taller than her. Sometimes she forgot she wasn’t real or maybe it was because she was raised that way, or maybe it was because she was the only one who didn’t have any ambition or life to fear for. 

Swiftly Oya bound a piece of cloth around Minseo’s eyes in an assurance that Mutt and Jeff weren’t spying on her. They weren’t to be trusted and if Michael hadn’t explicitly asked her not to kill them, they would have been dead long ago. Especially because of their first interaction with where we're less than tactful given that they had implied she was an exotic pussy just there for Michael to fuck. Michael's hand held Oya back only to turn to them himself and let his tendrils of magic tear inside their heads. They had cried blood that day.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she repeated to herself as she drew a big circle in the soil and then divide it in two, with a single much smaller circle in the middle. The next half an hour was spend setting up candles in the circle, stones were scattered in the ridge of the circle, as well as her herbs.

When all that was placed Oya took the bucket of blood and poured it in an oval shape inside one of the chambers of the circle. Above her, her crows croaked with curiosity, their shadows following the circle around and around. She had let them free, used them to look after the garden and surveil the ones that came and went. And every once in a while she let them turn to shadows and travel beyond the stained glass and green to the halls on concrete to keep an eye on the inhabitants. 

The blood seeped into the soil as if it was greedy for it. 

She then went to her medicine box and opened the various drawers, pulling out vials and dried herbs alike. First, she crushed herbs in the mortar, pouting the powter into a deep bowl, followed by snake oil and two drops of belladonna essence. Other oils and essences were also added, among them being Daffodil oil and water hemlock essence. And for good measures mistletoe. 

The concoction was fatal, to say the least if it had not been for Oya’s keen potion making and alchemical abilities. 

Then she crushed the bone of crow into dusty clumps, stuck a feather into the mix, poured the blood of a deer and added dried chicken feet as well as sparrow claws. 

To be perfectly honest the concoction looked as revolting as it sounded and it smelled even worse. 

“ _ This better fucking work,” _ she muttered in her native tongue, cutting a tiny wound into the palm of her hand and let a few drops fall into the potion. The wound healed up immediately. 

Oya rolled her neck and started murmuring forgotten words as the heavy smell of burned herbs began to fill the area. Her hands waved over the bowl, blessing it as well as hexing it. There was a faint feeling of her snake move beneath her skin, reacting to the words that fell from her lips. 

At last she added the final ingredient, the sparse few drops of Cordelia’s blood that was left, the hair she had ripped out long gone, burned with the herbs. 

The hardest part was swallowing it all down without throwing up. The taste was unimaginable and stuck to her tongue as well as nose. It clawed at her throat and threatened to spill into her lungs. Her stomach turned. Quickly and with stubbornness she swallowed the last of it, crawling over the soil to lie down in the other compartment of the circle, the one not touched by blood. 

She closed her eyes and emptied her head, letting the soil swallow her up and the darkness wash over her. As she sank into the soil she raised above the surface of the Inbewteen. Her stomach turned again and a cold shill went through her body. 

A gasp escaped her when she pushed herself up from the water, finding herself dry despite having gone through it. She was naked now, as she usually was in the Inbetween. There was nothing, a void so easily recognized by how often she had been there over the years. 

Two doors revealed themselves, one shining black that caught the light that wasn't present and one a screaming red against the black vastness of everything. One felt familiar to her soul, begged her to open it, while the other was the one she needed to go through. 

Her body felt weak and shaking, a sweat working its way up on her brow while she felt cold. Her stomach felt like a storm threatening to spill over at any moment. She strode to the red door with quick steps, twisting the knob and stepping into the black walls of hell. The red had turned to black as she closed the door behind her, hand resting on it while she sank forward, mouth pouring with saliva. She spat the excess onto the ground and heard her stomach growl in dismay while her insides convulsed. 

What began as a waterfall of saliva turned into a strangled gag and then she felt her stomach purge, felt it rise throughout her oesophagus and upwards. It was uncomfortable to say the least, made her eyes burn with tears and neck strain enough to pop every vein. It slithered up and she opened her mouth ready to spill the contents. 

The white snake slithered forth and landed in a pool of her saliva. As soon as the head was out, the rest of the snake quickly followed and when she was finally free of it, she drew in deep breaths and strained gasps until she caught enough air in her lungs to stretch out. 

At her feet the snake slithered around, waiting to be told what to do. She wiped her mouth and brushed her air out of her face, already feeling better. “Find  _ her _ .” 

The snake slithered forth, leaving a trail of wet behind it until it eventually disappeared. Oya followed with bare feet, her strides long and filled with purpose. The white dress swung around her, no longer dirty from soil, spilled blood and concoction. Guess hell made her clean.

At one point she passed a corridor and paused, looking down an opposite hall the mirror image of the one she was in. The black door opened and a man dark as midnight stepped out wearing a silver lined suit. He was beautiful, with high cheekbones and thick lips only a man as dark as him could have. What caught her attention the most was the aura around him, humming with as much glee as it did pain. There was a silver circle around his dark eyes only matched by the silver on his eyelids. 

When he caught sight of her, he bowed. She automatically returned the bow, brows slightly furrowed in bewilderment. The demon then turned and walked away. It was the first true demon she had seen. 

The snake hissed, the sound distant. With quick steps, she returned to the snake while it slithered forth until it coiled at a door. The doorknob was cold to the touch and when she entered there was the same cold crisp to the air. Everything was cast in blue light, haunting and strangely beautiful. One step ago she was outside in hell, now she was standing at the Robichaux Academy.

The floor didn’t creak when she walked through the room. The sound of a sob echoed through the dead silent halls, the only thing filling the empty void in the air. It felt just as it had done when she visited the real Academy. The lack of magic, the hollowness of the house as if its bones had been edged out and left empty. The snake slithered into the dining hall and waited patiently there. 

She already knew what she’d see but she still she felt the gratification rise within her when her eyes fell upon the bodies of the witches, each scattered around a broken and crying Cordelia. The woman clutched one of the dead witches to her chest, one Oya didn’t know the name of. Her body rocked back and forth, eyes swollen and thick with tears. 

“So this is what your personal hell looks like,” Oya mused. Her voice cut through the daze in Cordelia's mind, the loop she was in broken by her presence. The woman’s brows furrowed as she cast a fierce and biting look towards Oya. “Surrounded by those you love without any possibility of bringing them back.”

“No,” Cordelia murmur faintly. 

“You lost, if you couldn’t tell,” Oya mocked with venomous glee. “Not that you didn’t try, I have to give you that. Mallory did her part and did it well but alas she was nothing against a goddess.” 

“No,” Cordelia repeated, loosening her grip on the dead girl. Her eyes blinked, tears no longer filling them through the pain was still there. The fallen supreme gathered her strength and let go of the girl entirely, turning to Oya and staggering to her knees. “Why are you here?” 

“You have something I want.”

Cordelia was about to question what it was but her mind clicked and a flicker of pure and adulterated spite settled in her eyes. “I will give you nothing.”

“Not to sound like a total villain but I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” Oya stepped closer, her steps deliberate and strong. “I could try and bargain with you if it weren’t because I can take what I want. Tell you about how Mallory died and where she is now.” Cordelia’s eyes narrowed in contempt. The flicker of light in the witches eyes told Oya everything she needed to know. That Mallory had been a soft spot and that her death would affect her. “Every bone in her body was crushed and her insides turned liquid with the amount of pressure on her. You should have seen it, blood pouring from her eyes that were ready to burst out of her skull, I wonder…. What she thought about when I cut her throat.”

“You can give me every single gruesome detail but it won’t change anything,” Cordelia spat, her hands clutching the wrinkled gown she wore so hard her knuckles were white. Oya’s eyes trailed towards Mallory’s body and noted that she merely looked asleep. Her eyes closed and she rolled her head back and forth drawing in a deep breath only to let it out again and with it her magic. It wrapped around Mallory’s body and within the blink of an eye, the serene looking witch turned to the horrific body Oya had left behind floating in the tub. 

A strangled whine escaped Cordelia who clawed at the floor as she shook at the sight. The crying chorus of ‘no’ filled the air and with each word edged in the broken pain of the fallen supreme before her. 

“S-she wasn’t meant to… She was good!” 

“Not that good, she did try and kill a child. Not exactly the actions of a good-.”

“He was the antichrist! He was going to destroy the world and you let him!” Cordelia screamed, tears and snot running down her face all the same. 

Oya waved her hand in the air as if she were waving off flies. “Yes yes, I’ve had this conversation before. I’d much rather tell you about where she is.” Cordelia's eyes snapped up at her, pleading and still spiteful. “She’s not in hell but the underworld. The principals are the same, torment for eternity. Her world shifts between emotional torment like this,” her hand motioned to the scenario surrounding them. “And a much more physical kind of misery.”

“Stop, just stop,” Cordelia trembled out, using her hand to shield her reddened face from Oya’s prying and cruel eyes. It didn’t help of course. There was no shielding her shame. “You said you’d take what you wanted from me so just do it and get it over with.”

The white snake slithered forth, curling between Oya’s feet and towards Cordelia, tongue snapping out every once in a while to taste the agony in the air. Oya let out a mocking sigh. “Only because I respect who you were and your stubbornness.”

White scales caught the blue light as the snake slithered to Cordelia who wrung away. In one swift movement, the witch was nailed to the spot muscles straining against invisible tethers. It climbed her body, twisted around her neck and waited patiently for Oya to force Cordelia’s locked jaws open and then slithered inside. Cordelia choked and sputtered, fingers jittering at her side while her eyes widened in horror. She gagged at the intrusion and Oya couldn’t blame her. The snake was big and far longer than a cock… When it had slithered inside Oya let got of her grasp and released her from the bindings. The snake would come out by itself and Cordelia was certain not to resist getting it out. 

“I know it’s uncomfortable, trust me but you did have it coming.” It wasn’t like her to mock so much, to banter back and forth this way with cruel intentions and venomous words but the image of Michael’s heavy shoulders and the hidden hurt Cordelia had inflicted upon him wouldn't go away. He missed her. He wished for his mother figure, the woman who’d stand by his side and never betray him. Of course, he had her, the woman who’d do anything for him. But he was going to need a person to take part in the politics and while Oya would remain his other half, he was going to need someone less prone to curse her opponents. 

In one convulsive move, Cordelia lunged forward, her nails raking over the floor audibly while her beath strained and body broke into shudders. Oya made a disgusted face at the sound of wet gagging, a shudder of her own running through her body with the memory of how it was for her.  

When the snake returned from the inside of a human it was silver grey, the tips of its scales dark green. It fell to the floor among other fluids where it coiled and slithered towards the door now enlightened with the knowledge it was meant to obtain. 

“Your hell, Cordelia, is going to be a lot more painful from now on,” Oya said and turned to follow the snake out. The click of the door closing shut out the sounds of broken sobs. 

Oya followed the snake through the halls, seemingly walking forever with no change of decor or any roaming souls. There were no demons either and she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. Either way, she continued on. 

Then the snake finally curled in front of a door. Before entering she picked up the snake and let it twist around her wrist, its heavy body weighing more than you’d expect. It remained there, silent and tasting the air. The door creaked as she entered the building finding that the insides were darkened wood, carved out in a 1920-is style with dark wallpaper where there weren't panelling. The moment she set foot inside she knew where she was, the old haunted house beside the one Michael grew up in. There were the cold touch of spirits in the air and the lining of the house held dark energy drawn from the corridors of hell.

“Hello?” She sounded out hoping that this would be it for now. That Mrs. Mead would just appear and they could take their leave. But that wasn’t meant to be, she already knew that. She’d have to look for something out of place. 

“Who are you?” A man asked after appearing around the corner followed by two women, one with strawberry blond hair and the other older with burned red hair. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Langdon appeared, smoke in her hand and an annoyed expression upon her face. 

“She is the one I told you about,” Mrs. Langdon answered. The strawberry blond crossed her arms over her chest and guarded her expression. She was the one who was the weariest. 

“I’m Oya,” she introduced and stepped further in, eyes running over the surroundings trying to pinpoint something that didn’t belong. “I’m looking for something.”

“What?” The older redhead asked at the same time the strawberry blond said; “We’re not going to help you. You’re with him, Michael.” The name caused the house to groan, a shudder going through the air and rippling through the souls. What was guarded and weary became more so. Oya disregarded this and continued to look through the house, eyes catching a glimpse of the desolate land outside of the windows. 

“I’m looking for something that doesn't belong, something new or out of place.”

“Why should we help you?” The man asked. 

Oya inhaled in thought. Why should they help her? They didn’t have to. She’d eventually find what she needed but it’d go faster with their help. Each soul had a different aura, some told of their innocence while others told of the decay. Each had been judged but sentenced all the same. But who exactly judged them? “Because it’d get me out of here faster.”

“Can you help us?” The older redhead asked, soul, radiating innocence and eyes longing for peace. 

“Moira!” The strawberry blond hissed.

“If this is my chance of getting out of here I’m taking it! Don’t you take that away from me, Vivien,” Moira hissed back, stepping forward with hands pressed together in a prayer and eyes pleading. Oya simply smiled at her and would have taken her hands between her own if it weren't for the snake residing in one of them. Instead, she pushed the paying hands down and away from her. Prayer didn’t help either of them. 

“I can get you out if I wanted to, give you peace or send you on your merry way to heaven or whatever, it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is finding this object.” Her eyes looked past Moira to the couple wrapping their arms around one another protectively and then up at the woman on top of the staircase. There were more ghosts, she could feel their eyes on her, hidden from sight but very much there. They whispered amongst each other, some in scorn while others in hope. 

“Is that a possibility for all of us?” A woman asked body and face burned to a crisp.

“Most of you,” Oya answered, eyeing Michael’s grandma and the strawberry blond who was without a doubt Michael’s birth mother. “I’ll release you to wherever is next for you, that being hell or the beyond.”

“This is hell,” Mrs. Langdon spat taking a few steps down the stair followed by a boy with blond curly hair and dark eyes.  _  Born of life and death, human and spirit. _ This was the father. The vessel in which Satan used to spawn the antichrist. Oya could see it, the touch of the same kind of darkness Michael had emanating around his father. 

“Hell could be far worse, trust me on this,” Oya replied. “And if it were up to me you’d feel the flames of hell along with the others that hurt Michael but he left you here to rot. I trust this hell is sufficient.”

“You’re just as bad as him,” Vivien commented, held back by whom Oya believed was her husband. Vivien was a strange soul with a strange aura. She was meant for heaven or eternal bliss but was trapped here with the rest of them and somehow she remained pure like Moira and the burned woman, untainted by the house and its deeds. Untainted by her attempt to kill Michael. 

Her husband was another story. 

“I won’t argue with you.” The indifference in her voice was staggering but honestly, she was tired and she wanted to get out of hell. “Most of us in this room as done shitty things-.”

“Like ending the world?” Michael’s father said from the stairs, voice as hard as his eyes. Oya shrugged and looked at Moira. 

“Where is it?” 

“Moira don’t,” Vivien begged but found that Moira had been swayed. There were no hard feelings between them though, both women understanding the other. Oya followed the redhead into the living room and pointed over the fireplace at a goat's head. It was black and its eyes seemed afire. 

“It just appeared.”

Oya walked past the maid, hand squeezing her arm in thanks before continuing towards the mantlepiece. Why a goat's head she’d never have the answer for but she knew why it was  _ here _ . This was the place Michael would have gone to last. The place in which he’d never set foot in. And she couldn’t blame him. With the many ghosts, most of which were calling his existence an abomination, most of which betrayed and disappointed him. It was no wonder Cordelia had chosen to hide her soul in this place. It was a stroke of genius, the intent calculated and malicious. If he were to come here it’d come with a great personal cost. 

Too bad they hadn’t foreseen her. 

The fur was coarse and stiff under her fingers, the head itself heavy as she took it down and walked towards the main room needing space for the next thing. Horrified eyes followed her as well as curious eyes. Moira followed her quickly behind tethering on the edge to ask for her price. She didn’t however. 

Oya produced a knife from beneath her dress, once tied flatly against her thigh, but now catching the eyes of various spirits. The head had been placed on the floor with Oya standing over it, raising her arm with the snake in it, letting it hang limb as her hand was wrapped around its head. The blade cut through scales and flesh, blood gushing down onto the goat. Lights flickered in the house and a wind picked up. The snake was discarded to the floor followed by the blade. 

The blood seared through the goat, smoke and steam rising from it and forming into a familiar shape. There was a chorus of gasps. 

Mrs. Mead blinked at her, blue eyes framed by black eyelashes and pale skin. She wore a white ragged dress that looked more like a potato bag than a dress. Confused, her brows knitted together, eyes running from one face to another. 

“Mrs. Mead,” Oya spoke politely. “I know it’s confusing-.”

“Where am I? H-how did I get here? Is this hell?”

“This is hell alright,” Mrs. Langdon muttered and drew in a breath through the cigarette. 

“I will explain it all to you but first I have a promise to uphold.” Oya turned to Moira, then felt around for the souls that needed be here, the ones she deemed innocent enough and felt sympathy for. She might be fucking and loving the antichrist be she wasn’t without empathy. Each soul was judged and sentenced, her tendrils latching onto the ones that earned freedom and peace. 

“Thank you,” Moira said moments before she disappeared, slowly dissolving out of existence like fading smoke. 

“It was nice to meet you all but I have a world to build and you have an eternity to think over what you’ve done.” There were words thrown at her, one among them being ‘the devil's whore’ but she shut them out and lead Mrs. Mead to the corridors of hell. 

“Who are you?”

“I’m Oya. I would say that Michael send me but that’d be twisting the truth,” she confessed. Mrs. Mead stopped and looked at her, eyes uncertain and examining. She wasn’t sure to believe her. Wasn't really sure of anything. “Michael told me about you. When he lost you he lost a piece of himself and he’s been missing it ever since. He would have come for you, he would, but he didn’t know how or where to find you. The witches hid you.”

“But you found me.”

“I did. I’ve spent over a year searching and then perfecting the spell to find you. Now is the time though,” Oya spoke and began to walk. There was a heaviness to Meads' eyes. A searching. Of course, she’d be wary. Anyone would be in her shoes. A stranger coming and freeing you, then walking down the corridors of hell with said woman, entrusting her to lead you to the boy saw as your child. “He needs someone at his side, someone he trusts.”

“If you’re doing this he already has one he trusts. Michael wouldn’t open up like that to just anyone.”

“Yes, he has me but he also needs you.” Mead would be his right hand and Oya his left. She’d be the woman he loved, his queen, and Mead his trusted advisor. “He doesn’t know I’ve found you, it’s quite possible he’d faint in surprise…” Of course, he wouldn’t but the mental picture of it was quite something. “There’s a lot that has happened since you’ve died. A lot has changed and I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

“I do but I’m hoping Michael will clarify,” Mrs. Mead spoke softly, even more so when speaking his name. “I somehow imagined hell to be much… warmer,” Mrs. Mead commented eyes running over the black decor. 

“Yes, well I suppose they decided to modernize,” Oya chuckled. 

“But how do we get out of here?”

Oya stopped at the door she had once entered through and looked at Mead with worry and warmth. “It’s not going to be pleasant. Quite frankly it’s properly going to be utmost unpleasant like you’ve been buried alive and every cell in your body screaming for air… Or so I imagine. You’ll have to claw your way out and you’re going to be disoriented.” 

Mead nodded and drew in a breath. “I suppose it’s how it is when returning from the dead without a body to return to. For Michael, I’d do anything.”

“Good,” Oya smiled and opened the door. “Don’t get lost.”

Together they walked into the Inbetween, the door closing with a heavy sound behind them. Mead looked mildly distressed and if she had known what this place meant, what it could do, she’d have an entirely different look on her face. The water rippled with each step they took, the small waves catching none existent light. And then the fell forward. 

Oya plummeted from the ground, stomach-turning the content within and forcing it up her throat with a burning touch. She clawed at the earth, forcing herself to her knees and hunched forward spilling every drop of the concoction in a heavy stream. It felt as it took all the energy from her, the water pouring all the way from her toes to her head and into the ground. Tears spilled over her eyes, burning. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, tumbling around to watch the other side of the circle. 

At first, nothing happened and panic fluttered in her heart, but then the ground started to move. Fingers sprouted from the ground, pale and covered in blood. The earth drew a breath and moved. Slowly, the woman fought her way through the surface, her entire body covered in dirt and blood, eyes wide and disoriented. Ragged breath was drawn in between tight lips, body quaking and shaking with stiff muscles. 

Oya crawled to the chest and took the rough blanket that had been laid atop of it. She then stumbled on her knees to Mead and wrapped her naked body in the fabric, speaking soft words of reassurance to the panicked woman. It’d take a moment to return to reality. While Mead’s mind reeled Oya continued to soothe her, running her hand in circles on her back to comfort her. 

“Y-you weren’t wrong,” Mead choked out raspy and breathless. 

“Welcome to back,” Oya greeted and settled back on her feet. “Are you ready to stand?” Mead nodded and grasped Oya’s held out hands, helping herself up from the ground. They stood for a moment, waiting to gain stronger legs that weren't threatening to cave under them. 

“When can I see Michael?”

Oya lifted her brows, a smile playing on her lips even though she felt dead tired. “Don’t you want to be cleaned up first?”

“You’re right, I can’t face him like this, covered in dirt and blood with only a blanket to cover me,” Mead agreed. She didn’t let go of Oya’s hand, instead tightening her grip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Oya spoke, a little flushed before ordering Minseo to take the bindings off of her eyes and help the three of them to the empty quarters closest to Michael’s office. There Oya bid goodbye to Mead for the time being and projected herself into her own bathroom to clean up and get re-dressed, the white dress ruined. 

* * *

 

They met by the door where they had bid each other goodbye and together ventured towards Michael’s office. By now he’d sit in front of the fire, reading over the plans on his tablet, though Oya suspected that sometimes the words on the screen weren’t reports or plans but rather a book or something entertaining. He couldn’t possibly be spending the entire time working, especially when there were  _ years _ until most of the plans could be carried out. 

The corridors were empty and desolate. Only the two of them walked through them, never pausing when faint voices were heard. They walked towards the dark wooden doors that were the only of its kind in the entire bunker, though it swooshed to the sides as all of the others. 

They entered and immediately Michael’s scent hit her nostrils, soothing her tense shoulders and tired body. His mere presence eased her, lulled her into comfort and satisfaction. The energy emitted trailed along her skin and roused up goosebumps. Already she felt her heart drum faster than expected, butterflies fluttering in her empty stomach and warmth spreading through her cold body. Oya stepped around the well-grown rosebush that covered the rest of the office, eyes falling upon Michael sitting by the fire as she expected, tablet in hand and legs crossed, the silver tips of his pointed shoes catching the light of the fire. He looked so good and if it weren’t for Mead she’d have straddled him right then and there. 

“What have you been up to?” Michael drawled, turning off the tablet and rising from the comfortable armchair. Oya walked to him, a smile on her red lips and a gleam in the eye. Michael narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. Her ritual and spell would have drawn his attention, that was expected, so much so it would overshadow Mead’s presence for the time being, but not much longer. 

“A bit of everything,” Oya answered and stopped before Michael. “There’s someone I’d like for you to meet, or rather there’s someone  _ you _ should introduce me to.”

A shadow fell between his furrowed brows, eyes curious but cautious. Then the blue snapped to the presence behind her and she heard his breath being pulled in. Michael stiffened and remained a statue, eyes following Mead as she approached. When she was right before him, the breath that he held was let out into a whisper. “ _ Mrs. Mead. _ ”

“Michael,” she spoke and cupped his cheek. Like a child that had missed his mother, he melted into her touch, tears brought to his eyes and a tremble to his bottom lip. Oya could feel the emotions, felt the swirl in the air and engulf them. Her heart strained against her chest at the display. 

“H-how? They hid you.”

“This lovely young woman here found me and brought me back to you.” Mead took Oya’s hand and squeezed it before she let go again. Michael looked at her in a way he had never done before, filled with love and adoration, with surprise and worship. There was gratitude flowing in his tears. 

“There’s a lot for the two of you to catch up on and I’m awfully tired,” Oya spoke, caressing Michael’s cheek. “Come see me when you’re done.” She turned to Mead. “It was nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” Respectfully she bowed her head at them, a habit from the past, and then left the room. Already she could hear them speaking, the muttered voices muffled into silence by the door. Somehow the corridors were far colder than they had been moments before. 

* * *

 

The fire crackled peacefully in the background, its long flames licking at the air and casting an orange hue into the room. In her lap laid a journal, the ink dried long ago, while the tip of the pen remained wet and ready for use. She had written down details of the spell, drawn sketches and made prints for it all. Of course, she wrote in Korean, if the book were to fall in supposed wrong hands they’d have a hard time figuring it out. 

She had been sitting there for hours, the warmth of the fire pressed on her skin with a loving embrace, while her eyes looked into the dancing flames with a musing expression. Her body felt weak and tired but she couldn’t find rest, instead she bundled up in a soft velvet chair, feet tugged in beneath her and away from the cold nibbling at the floor. If there had been no crackling from the fire she might have turned mad at the silence. 

Lost in thought, Oya didn’t hear him come in, didn’t notice his warm tendrils of magic close in around her. Instead, she remained a statue in the glow of the fire. 

“You found her,” Michael spoke, his voice cutting through her thoughts and pulled her attention towards him. Like this, in this light and within their own walls his demeanour softened considerably. He truly looked like a benevolent god. 

Gently she smiled at him. “Yes. I thought you’d need someone as your right hand.” The book closed, her fingers nimbly putting the cap back on the pen and then tugged into the corner of the chair. “And you missed her. I couldn’t let them take more from you.”

Michael kneeled down at her knees, his hands caressing the bare skin of her calves. “There’s more. I can feel it. The air around you is different.” Blue was swallowed up by black, his pupils dilated to the fullest. Electricity tingled between his fingers and her skin. The warmth he held within him was fiercer than the one emitted from the fire. 

She paused, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in what seemed like worry. Then she took his hand and folded out before him, her feet meeting the ground as she sat more properly. Like this she lead his hand to her belly and pressed it in against the bump that was growing, a flutter forming beneath her skin, deep within. At first, there was confusion towards her action, then with another flutter a realisation. His brows went up and mouth opened with no words tumbling out. 

“I’m with child,” her voice carried to him the words that brought the world to a halt. “I’m not sure how. I’ve taken precautions and medicine but…”

His hand moved beneath hers, pressing further into her as to feel more. His knees were now on the floor, his body pulled towards her as a reaction. There was wonder on his face, eyes flickering abortion. Her free hand cupped his face, drawing his eyes from her belly towards hers. 

“You should say something before I take it the wrong way,” she spoke, a curl to her lips.

“I’m going to be a father?” His voice was haunting, that velvet touch. 

“Well yes, I certainly haven't been fucking anyone else,” she chuckled at his big eyes. 

A huge smile formed on his lips, one that could outshine the sun and brought her more joy than anything else in the world. “I am for the first time without words.” Before she could laugh at him, he was hunched over her, lips pressed towards her own in an intense kiss. Around her she could feel his magic whirl, his tendrils embracing hers, caressing along any naked skin of hers and then some. The kiss was filled with love that neither of them thought possible. 

And then she as back towards her belly, his hands exploring the expanse as if it was a treasure map and he had found the prize. It was almost childish the wonder he held. While he did that she brushed her fingers through his hair, eyes memorizing every emotion that played across his features.

“Are you happy?”

“I’m ecstatic.”

“I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, I tried looking into the future, I’ve tried various spells and charms but I’ve seen nothing. Whatever they are, whoever they are, they’re not allowing me to peep,” Oya spoke quietly. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael answered her, eyes now on her own again. “This world we’re creating is for them.”

“It’s for  _ us.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, yes for me the baby is a girl, but I didn't want to be gender specific.

**Author's Note:**

> Im aware there's a lot of mistakes. English isn't my first language.  
> I'll update when I can but know that I try and make the chapters a good length and because of that it might take a while.  
> Please leave a comment with what you think because that is what keeps me going.


End file.
